


The Host

by wargoddess



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, F/F, First Time Bottoming, M/M, Public Sex, Sex Work, Voyeurism, blowjob, handjob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Carver worked for the Blooming Rose, and Cullen was a customer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unfinished and never to be finished, alas. Read at your own risk!

     The stuff in Cullen's glass was green and sickeningly sweet.  He wasn't sure what it was, actually, or even whether it contained alcohol.  He had no savvy in such things, and he suspected the bartender had somehow seen that about him and given him a child's drink on a lark.  If he came to the Rose again, he would take care to learn the names of some drinks -- manly drinks, drinkers' drinks -- and ask for one, rather than babbling _Whatever you think is appropriate_ and hoping for the best.

     _If_ he came again.  Most likely he never would.

     "The Void is that?" said a voice, too close, and Cullen nearly fell off the barstool amid the warring impulses to scramble away or, alternately, draw his sword.  But the man beside him didn't seem to notice, scowling as he was at Cullen's drink.  "Maker, did a witch make it for you?  Does it summon demons?"

     The question was so absurd -- and so typical of a layman's ignorance of magic -- that Cullen could not help amusement.  "I think not," he said gently, not wanting the man to think he was being condescended-to.  "Witches tend to be more dramatic, for one.  Why bother with potions when you can summon dragons?  And suchlike."

     "Yeah, figured."  The man grinned at him, and belatedly Cullen realized he'd been joking too.  Yet his smile -- easy, good-humored, wry -- kept Cullen from feeling lampooned.  Then the man eyed the bartender.  "Quintus, really?  Give him something decent to drink.  Maybe some of that Montsimmard white Porifiria's always going on about?"

     The bartender rolled his eyes, but came over and wordlessly swapped out the green stuff for a bigger glass of richly amber-colored wine.  Cullen nodded thanks and took a careful sip:  it was light and fresh, still sweeter than he liked, but not overly so.

     "My thanks," said Cullen in relief, once the bartender had moved away to serve someone else.  The Rose was sparsely populated this evening; only half the seats at the bar had been occupied, and there were more courtesans in the common room than patrons, if the display of feather boas and conspicuously bare chests was any tell.  Perhaps Cullen's fellow patron was also a bit nervous, though he did not look it.  Whatever his reasons for striking up a conversation, Cullen was happy to talk to someone who expected nothing of him.  "I couldn't tell if I was being insulted, or if this place was just more tasteless than I'd already assumed."

     The man laughed, and Cullen found himself smiling and relaxing in reply.  There was something so infectious about that laugh:  just the right touches of self-deprecation and genuine amusement and world-weariness.  Strange to hear the lattermost from a man so young; he looked to be at least five years Cullen's junior, though he was clearly well-grown and sported burgeoning afternoon stubble along his neatly-shaven jaw.  Still, there was an undeniable hardness about him, and an easy confidence in the way he held his broad shoulders, which hinted that he'd more than earned the touch of weariness in his manner.

     "Eh, the Rose is still plenty tasteless, even if the wine's not bad," the young man said.  "Tries too hard to play high class 'cause it's in Hightown.  If they'd just put some good ales on the menu, they'd do twice the business.  Maker, how I miss Fereldan sometimes."

     "You are from Fereldan too, then?"  But of course Cullen could hear it in his speech now, and had heard it without noticing since they'd begun speaking.  No doubt another reason why Cullen had found himself so at ease:  a fellow countryman.

     "Lothering, may it rest in peace.  You?"

     "Oh.  Ah -- "  And here it was awkward again.  Cullen had come to the Rose in casual clothing, strange as that felt; he could not bear to have his weakness reflect poorly on the Order, even if others of his calling had no qualm about doing so.  But a Fereldan would know, the instant he said:  "Kinloch Hold."

     And of course the man said, "Oh, Templar then?  Huh.  Always heard there was no need for brothels at Kinloch; everybody in the Tower tended each other good and proper."

     Oh, dear.  "There was, ah, some of that going on," Cullen admitted.  He tried not to squirm, and succeeded only in blushing.  "The Tower was rather... isolated, so we found our own entertainment where we could."

     Which had been folly, of course, as later events proved; the Templars of Kinloch had grown complacent and paid for that hedonism with their lives.  Cullen sobered at this thought.  _And here I am, making the same mistake again_.

     Oblivious to Cullen's sudden angst, the young man signaled the bartender, who returned and gave him a glass of the same wine.  "Isolated?  Isolated's being the only fellow your age between the north Wilds and Redcliffe -- except for your better-looking, smoother-talking big brother."  The young man shook his head, a look of utmost sourness on his face.  "Maker, I only managed to lose my virginity because he was too damned busy to handle all his 'requests'!"

     Cullen was surprised into laughing again, mostly at the young man's comically obvious dismay.  "Is that so?"

     " _Yeah_ , the bastard.  Every time I saw someone I liked, I always had to worry that Brother would get her first.  Or him.  Didn't help that we had the same eye for quality, either."

     And, still laughing, Cullen was caught completely by surprise when the young man's eyes drifted down, then up again, examining Cullen from head to toe.  Startled, Cullen fell silent, but then the young man grinned -- and was there a hint of approval in his gaze?  "At least he left me all the Templars, tho'.  So I didn't mind so much."

     _Maker, did he just --_   Flustered, Cullen focused on his drink again, and floundered for something else to say.  "Did he, ah, have some objection to Templars, then?"

     "Some, yeah.  He was a mage, see."  When Cullen frowned sharply at him, the young man shrugged and toyed with the rim of his glass.  There was an odd sort of half-smile on his lips, as if he was enjoying Cullen's discomfiture.  "Guess it's no fun getting a tumble from someone who thinks you ought to be locked up; go figure."

     Heat, followed by cold, washed through Cullen.  "You mock me," he said, scowling and straightening.  "That, or you are a stupider man than you seem, admitting to the Knight Captain of the Gallows that you harbor an apostate."

     The man's smile faded, and he stared at Cullen in apparent surprise.  Then his expression hardened.  "Didn't know you were the Knight Captain," he said.  "Not that it would matter either way, though, because my brother is dead."

     " -- Oh."  Abruptly uncomfortable, Cullen shifted in his seat.  "I, I see."  That was not enough; the young man sat up, jaw tight and face set, plainly gathering himself to leave.  "Forgive me," Cullen blurted, unwilling to leave matters as they were.  It was the job of a Knight Captain to represent the Order, and here he'd made a right insensitive ass of himself.  "It is only that I am so _often_ mocked, here in Kirkwall --  But that is no excuse.  I have given offense, and I can offer only my deepest apology for it."  He stood and bowed deeply.

     "What --  Sod's sake, don't do _that_."  Sounding more irritated than before, the young man grabbed Cullen's shoulder, pulling him back up.  "Look -- just buy me another drink, all right?  Then we're even.  Anyway, I probably _was_ mocking you, just a little."  When Cullen looked up, the young man grimaced uncomfortably.  "My brother always loved doing things like that around Templars.  Now that he's gone -- "  He sighed.  "I catch myself doing the same thing all the time.  Stupid, I know."

     He settled on his stool again, so Cullen did the same, and there was a moment of uncomfortable silence between them.  And Maker help him, there was nothing Cullen could think to say except -- "Was it... demons?"

     The young man glared at him.  " _No_ , it wasn't sodding demons.  My brother was strong."  He sobered then, and abruptly Cullen realized that this was the source of the weariness he'd glimpsed in the man.  Grief, and perhaps more.  "So strong he took on an ogre to save our mother and sister.  It killed him.  But at least we all survived."

     A lone mage had tried to fight an ogre?  Cullen shook his head, admiring and horrified at once.  "With no Templar to help him?"

     "A Templar was there, actually, but he was dying.  And I was there."  And now there was bitterness welling beneath the sorrow.  The young man's jaw was tight, his eyes hard.  "Not a Templar, sure, but I fought at Ostagar; I can handle myself against darkspawn.  My sister and I took down the filthy thing afterward.  But Brother... it just happened too fast."

     _From Ostagar to Kirkwall, losing everything along the way?_   Cullen found himself wanting to comfort the fellow, somehow -- but how?  Would he welcome a hand on the shoulder from a man who'd just offended him?  Cullen did not even know his name.  "Such things happen in battle," he said awkwardly, wishing he could offer more than words.  "That your brother acquitted himself in such a manner, though...  Truly, he was blessed by the Maker."

     "That, he was."  With a little weary smile, the young man downed his whole glass of wine as if it were a shot of whiskey, and sighed.  This time it was Cullen who signaled the bartender, and when their glasses had been refilled, he lifted his in a toast.

     "To the brave," Cullen said, when the young man looked up and frowned in confusion.  "Those who've died and their survivors, alike."  For if he had slain an ogre, even with help, then this young man certainly qualified as well.

     After a moment, the man lifted his glass to touch Cullen's.  His gaze was thoughtful this time, as he watched Cullen over the rim.  Then he said, with a hint of wryness, "You're all right, Knight Captain."

     Cullen blushed.  "I should not have told you that."

     "What, you trying to be incognito?"  He half-smiled.  "You have any idea how many Templars come in here?"

     There were at least three in the common room even as they spoke; Cullen had nodded to each of them as he came in, and tried not to meet their eyes since.  "Yes.  But I should not be one of them."  Cullen looked away, dreading the moment when the man asked why he had come.

     But perhaps someone who had plainly come to enjoy the Rose's benefits himself had no need to ask that.  "Well, I need _something_ to call you, then," the young man said, grinning again; all was forgiven, apparently.  "And you me, I suppose:  I'm Carver."

     "Cullen."  He put his hand to his breast and inclined his head, which made the man -- Carver -- laugh.  He had a lovely laugh.

     "So sodding formal.  We've got to get you loosened up, yeah?"  He got up, taking his wine and nodding toward one of the tables nearby, on which sat a deck of cards.  "Hand of Wicked Grace, maybe?"

     "I have never played."

     "Oh.  Well, I can't say I play often, myself."

     So they retired to the table, and between the wine and the _blatant lie_ that Carver had told -- if they'd been playing for money, Cullen would have been left destitute -- before long Cullen found himself groaning and falling back in the plush chair, laughing and covering his eyes with one arm.  "Enough!  Mercy, serrah; I can endure no more."

     "Mmm, that's what I like to hear from a man."  Carver sat forward and propped his elbows on his knees.  "Another drink?  I think Quintus has something stronger in the back."

     "Thank you, no; if this is how I am with just a bit of wine, I fear what I might do in my cups."  He gestured vaguely toward the remnants of their game.

     "What's next, then?  Going to finally quit dithering and pick someone?"

     When Cullen lowered his arm to see Carver's lascivious grin, he blushed in reply.  "I, er, had not thought it obvious," he said.

     Carver shrugged.  "There are some who come here just to drink and play cards.  You don't seem the type, though."

     Cullen bit his lip and looked around the room as surreptitiously as he could, though none of the courtesans was paying him any attention.  "Am I so obviously the sort of man who must purchase his pleasure, then?"  The words came out bitter; he regretted them instantly.

     "Mmm, no, you're obviously the sort of fellow who'd rather settle down with someone in particular."  In surprise, Cullen focused on Carver, who'd propped his chin on one fist with a serious yet almost fond look on his face.  "But lacking that, you look like a fellow who works too hard and doesn't have time to find what he needs on his own.  Nothing wrong with paying for a substitute, meanwhile."

     It sounded so simple, framed that way.  Cullen sighed.  "It feels wrong," he admitted, quietly.  "Like weakness."

     "What, getting bored of your hand?  Wanting some weight in your arms when you lie down to rest, somebody to say good morning to?"  When Cullen shifted uneasily, Carver snorted.  "That's shit, Cullen.  For sod's sake, even Andraste got hers from Maferath while she was waiting for the Maker."

     Cullen grimaced.  It was not blasphemy, just an uncomfortable and too-blunt truth.  "Well... yes.  That is why, finally, I came here."

     "Right.  So who's caught your eye, then?  Saw you looking about."  Carver grinned.  "I can give you reviews, for some of 'em."

     Cullen's face _hurt_ , he blushed so hard.  But he made himself look again, trying to press himself for a decision.  There was a lovely elven lass in one corner, clad in little more than a girdle -- he grimaced in distaste at her obviousness.  And a human woman sitting at a table, laughing; she seemed all softness and lace and feathers, and the thought of lying with her left him completely cold.

     "Katriela," Carver said, following his gaze, "and Idunna.  Kat's good with her fingers.  Idunna -- "  When he trailed off, Cullen glanced at him; he grimaced.  "I don't think you'd like her.  She has a thing for Templars, but she's bossy, and gets pissy when you say no."

     Not that one, then.  Another elven woman strolled past, eyeing him boldly, and for a moment he swallowed back hunger.  But then her gaze shifted to another of the men sitting around the room, just as bold, and his desire died.  He wanted to feel special for a moment, at least, if not more than that.

     "Sabina," Carver said.  "And I'd warn you off her -- she's been to the clinic in Darktown a little too often, Lusine thinks she's moonlighting in the alley out back -- but it looks like you're not feeling her anyway."  He sat back in his chair, crossing his legs and swirling his glass of wine, idly.  He looked lean and lithe and almost predatory like that, and Cullen's belly tightened a little, for some reason.  "Cullen, something tells me you don't want to just scratch an itch tonight."

     Cullen ducked his eyes, chewing on his lip.  He did not know what he wanted, for truth.  The clamor of his body was certainly something he yearned to ease, and Carver was right; he'd tired of his own hand.  But...

     _Weight in your arms.  Somebody to say good morning to._

     Yes.  That was what he wanted.  And that -- Cullen sighed and rubbed a hand over his hair.  That, he was unlikely to find in a whorehouse.

     "What about Serendipity?" Carver nodded toward another elven woman sitting at the far end of the bar.  She was chatting with the bartender, smiling, and there was something in her manner, a _genuineness_ , that Cullen rather liked even though she was far from the prettiest in the room.  "The Seneschal's favorite, they say.  He comes here to lay his head on her lap and tell her all the things he can't tell anyone else.  You want something like that, don't you?"

     He did.  And for a moment he was tempted.  But the thought of the Seneschal doing the same thing, paying for someone to listen and pretend care for an evening...  Somehow knowing that emphasized the falsehood of it all. 

     He grimaced.  "If I must be honest, Carver, none of these women appeal."

     "All right.  What about the men?"

     Cullen bit his lip.  The idea was not foreign to him.  He had experimented a bit during his days in Kinloch, before the troubles, and learned that a man's skin felt much the same as a woman's in the dark.  But he looked up again, this time letting his gaze linger on the dwarf in the corner, on the slender goateed gentleman laughing over a drink, on the pale-haired fellow lounging proudly shirtless at a table...

     "They do not appeal, either," he said, feeling vaguely ashamed.  "I don't understand it.  They should --  _I_ should.  But I feel nothing."

     Carver chuckled softly.  "Hard man to please, hmm?  Well, have another drink, then, and wait; maybe one of the companions that's already upstairs will finish up and be more your liking.  Here, I'll go fetch us the wine bottle."

     Carver stood and went over to the bar, weaving easily around the room's furnishings and inhabitants, waving casually or smiling at this one or that, completely at ease.  Everyone seemed to know him.  Everyone seemed to like him, too -- which was not so hard to believe; he was a handsome man, warrior-big and radiating an aura of strength and warmth that was hard to ignore, even in a room filled with beautiful men and women.

     And it was only when he'd begun the walk back that Cullen realized he was staring, and that his hands were clammy, and that the niggling restlessness which had driven him to the Rose had settled into a hard ache of focused, raw _want_.

     Oh, Maker.  What was wrong with him?  Carver was not some perfumed, soft courtesan.  No, no, no.  As Carver sat down Cullen tore his eyes away and tried to pretend casualness, nodding thanks and taking the glass and drinking half the wine untasted.  It was only after a few moments of silence that he noticed Carver scowling, seeming distracted for the first time that evening.  "Is -- is something wrong?"

     Carver blinked at him, and inexplicably blushed.  "It's just Lusine.  She's been giving me the stinkeye for an hour now.  Guess I'm spending too much time with you."

     "Spending -- "  Cullen frowned in confusion.

     Carver blinked, and then a look of near-alarm crossed his face.  "Oh, Void.  Void, I thought --  You _do_ know I work here, right?  I mean -- "  He held up a hand as Cullen's mouth fell open.  "I'm not on the menu, I'm a host.  You know?  My job is to make newcomers feel welcome.  Help them relax.  Get them to check out the merchandise, or at least to start drinking, if they haven't."

     Cullen stared at him, a sinking horror growing at his core.  He had actually thought -- demons and flames.  Of _course_ not. 

     "You have done a fine job with me," he said, bitterly.

     Carver flushed and coughed.  "...I guess you didn't realize.  Well.  Sorry."  He sat forward, looking at his hands.  "Thing is, I'm _not_ on the menu, see, so --  I mean, I had it built into my contract that I didn't _have_ to do anything, even though, if I want -- "  He took a deep breath, abruptly uncomfortable.  "What I mean to say is -- "

     "You need say nothing."  Cullen took a deep breath and pushed to his feet, grimacing as he swayed a little with the wine.  He felt more than sober enough to make his way back to the Gallows, though, so he set down a gold coin to cover their drinks and nodded.  "I shan't keep you from your work.  Thank you for your... _expertise_."

     "Oh, fuck.  Cullen -- "

     But Cullen did not reply, shouldering his way past a woman coming through the common room door, trying not to meet anyone's eyes as he quickened his pace.  Bad enough that any of his men had seen him come here.  For them to see him leave like this, after he'd spent an evening thinking Carver a new friend, daring to hope for more than friendship --  Maker, what a _humiliation_.

     He was out of the Rose and across its courtyard, heading for the alleyway steps down to the Docks as a shortcut when Carver finally caught up to him.  Cullen had heard him calling, of course; he'd simply ignored it, until the man grabbed his arm.  " _Cullen_.  For fuck's sake!"

     Furious, Cullen shook his arm off and turned to glower at him.  "Leave off, serrah!  You have done your duty by me, and I have no further use for your _services_ , thank you."

     "You go that way, you arse, you'll be rolled by half the damn Carta before you reach Lowtown, let alone the Docks."  Carver stepped up to him, just as angry.  "They wait for men like you -- in their cups, alone, pissed-off 'cause you didn't get your knob turned the way you wanted,  with pockets full of coin.  Don't be stupid!"

     He was right -- and Cullen didn't want to hear it.  "Are you a royal advisor now, too?  Do you serve the Viscount now, listening to whatever he needs, pretending to care?  Or perhaps turning yourself over a desk when he has a mind -- "

     Carver was different out here in the moonlight, with no plush chairs or dim lights to soften him.  His face twisted in fury and he grabbed Cullen by the shirt -- which momentarily flustered Cullen because he'd forgotten he wasn't wearing armor.  "I was trying to _help_ you," he said, dragging Cullen close to snarl the words into his face.  "I _liked_ you, for fuck's sake.  If you hadn't gotten your arse in the air, I was about to invite you to my sodding _room_."

     Cullen tried to shove him away, but his hands did not work as well as he wished and he ended up simply scrabbling at Carver's arms; apparently he was drunker than he'd thought.  "And you said you weren't 'on the menu'.  More lies, clearly!"

     "Because I get to _choose_ , you snobby bastard!  Fucking listen!"  He shoved Cullen away, hard, and Cullen grunted out a surprised breath as his back connected with the wall.  When he recovered himself, Carver had paced away, rubbing his head as if it ached.  "Flames, I can't believe I actually _wanted_ you."  Abruptly he shook his head and cursed.  "Go on, then, get yourself shanked down that alley, and try not to come back this way to die.  Lusine just has bodies tossed in the harbor."

     With that he clenched his fists and stormed back toward the Rose's door.  Then Cullen blurted, "You wanted me?"

     There was a moment's silence and stillness as Carver stopped, his shoulders stiff and tight.  "Yeah," he said at last.  "Shows how good a judge of character I am, right?"  He shook his head and laughed, bitterly.  "Brother always did think I was a fool."

     Rubbing at his shirt to smooth the rumple there, Cullen blinked at his back.  "But you said it was your job..."

     Carver shook his head and turned.  "I just got reprimanded for doing a _shit_ job, remember?  I'm supposed to get the men drinking and laughing and then spin 'em off to someone else.  I'm supposed to get the women all hot and bothered _and spin 'em off to someone else_.  But I didn't, with you.  I tried, I mean -- "  He looked away, shifting from foot to foot.  "I asked, didn't I?  But you didn't want any of them.  And the way you kept looking at _me_..."  He spread his hands, then let them fall with a frustrated sigh.  "I figured it wouldn't hurt if I stayed with you, but then Lusine started getting snitty, and..."  He sighed.  "Shit."

     It could be lies.  It could be the greatest mummery Cullen had yet seen.  But --

     "I..."  It felt like weakness again, admitting this.  Making himself so vulnerable.  Yet Carver had done so, and he would be no man at all if he left matters like this.  "I liked that you stayed with me.  I wish -- "  No.  He could not say it.

     "Yeah?"

     Cullen licked his lips.  His chest ached from the pounding of his own heart.  "I wish that... that you still..."  _wanted me, that I could still have you, Maker, I want you so much I am sick with it --_   He could not say it.  "That, that I had not offended you."

     Carver's head turned, though not quite enough for Cullen to see his face.  "Easy way to fix that.  To _try_ to fix it, anyway."  The tone was neutral.

     "Yes."  Stepping away from the wall, Cullen bowed deeply over his hand.  "I should not have assumed the worst of you, nor said such vulgar things.  I beg your forgiveness."

     A rough, dry laugh was his reward.  When Cullen straightened, Carver had come back to stand before him, looking amused and a little wary and still just a touch pissed off.  "You can't just say sorry like a regular bloke, can you?  That's twice now you've 'offended' me.  Maker."

     Cullen ducked his eyes.  "...Sorry."

     Carver chuckled.  "S'all right."  There was a long silence, during which Cullen groped for something else to say, and Carver considered whatever unfathomable thoughts he would.  Then, without warning, Carver stepped closer.  "I want a kiss."

     Cullen started.  "What?"

     "To make it better.  That'll make it a _proper_ apology."  Carver shrugged, but his eyes didn't leave Cullen's, hot and blue as magefire now that he was no longer concealing his interest.  He stepped closer still, and Cullen jumped at the brush of fingers against his own where it hung at his side.  "S'what me and my sibs always said.  A kiss to make it better.  You never heard of that?"

     "I, I have."  Cullen could hardly breathe.  The want was back, more raw and desperate than before, and Carver was too close, too close.  What should Cullen do?  He licked his lips -- nerves maybe, and anticipation.  "I... would like that, I think."  Had he even managed to say that aloud?  Did he sound like a fool?  What if --

     Then Carver's mouth found his, and Carver's arm slipped 'round his back, and Carver's leg moved between his thighs.

     Maker.  Oh sweet _Maker_.  Soft lips and a gentle tongue, the sound of quick breath, small wet tastes still flavored with wine.  And a body against his, solid and strong, and so _warm_.  Cullen opened his mouth to exclaim this -- warm! -- and then suddenly Carver was _in_ his mouth, and the kiss went all at once from sweet and soft to raw and bruising.  Carver's tongue was in him and he devoured it, Carver's fingers were tightening on the back of his neck and the small of his back and he loved it, Carver's hips pressed against his until he could feel the other man hard against him -- as hard as Cullen must be, to judge by the heavy and almost painful throb down below.  Carver murmured against his mouth once -- _"oh, fuck"_   -- and then it was too much. 

     All thought shut down.  Cullen grabbed at his arm to hold him, fumbled below and tried shamelessly to caress Carver through his pants, opened his mouth and tried to _eat_ Carver in his rising madness.  He had no idea what he was doing.  He knew only Carver's mouth, searing against his skin, and Carver's cock which was suddenly in his hand, thick and silken-taut, and Carver's hand which had somehow gotten into his own pants --

     "OhMakerAndraste _please_!" he cried, letting his head fall back against the wall when Carver squeezed him just so.

     -- and Carver's weight trapping him against the wall, and Carver's teeth digging into his lip, and Carver's ragged groans in his own mouth as Cullen tried something, anything, to please him, and was not sure whether he'd even begun to succeed when Carver suddenly shouted and hot sticky wetness tickled Cullen's fingers.

     But there was no time to contemplate this because Carver pulled away then.  Cullen cried out for him, desperate, but he was still there, just crouching at Cullen's feet.  His eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight, like magic as they looked at Cullen, as he curled his tongue and dragged it sidelong down Cullen's shaft.  It was the most delicious feeling Cullen had known in years.  He opened his mouth to beg Carver for more, but before he could muster words Carver opened his mouth wide and tried to swallow Cullen whole.

     Oh.  _Oh._

     _Oh Merciful Andraste_ , Cullen thought, and died.

     Or so it felt, in that withering eternity.  He thought that he screamed; he did hear an echo.  He knew that he saw stars, that his whole body shook with that singular pleasure, and that the handful of other folk loitering in the Rose's courtyard were watching, some grinning, some of them just silent hungry voyeurs.  He knew too that he _did not car_ e who saw him there, pressed against a filthy wall and writhing over a man who'd just sucked the life out of him through his cock.

     When it was done and Carver had stood again, holding him perhaps because it felt good and more likely because otherwise Cullen might have fallen, Carver chuckled softly.  "Your face is wet."

     Cullen made a great effort and lifted a hand to touch his cheeks.  Sure enough, he had actually _wept_ somewhere in the midst of his dissipation.

     "That good, was it?"  Carver leaned against him, heavy and warm and wondrous, smiling in lazy satisfaction.  "Quickie up against a filthy wall, out in the open, both of us half drunk and too horny to last more than a couple of minutes; that's what gets you off?"

     Cullen blushed, belatedly adjusting his clothing with one hand.  "It has been... a long time."

     "Mmm, we've got to get you laid a bit more, then."

     Yes, that.  Cullen swallowed, hopeful.  "May I see you again?"

     Carver smiled in bemusement.  "I told you I'm not for sale, Cullen.  You've seen what I do:  I just chat people up.  If you're coming to the Rose, you want more than that, don't you?"  Abruptly he looked uncomfortable.  "Uh, don't tell Lusine we did this, by the way."

     It seemed amazing that he did not understand.  "I don't want to _buy_ you, Carver.  I want to _court_ you."

     Carver blinked.  "The Void's that mean?"

     "It means -- "  Cullen blushed.  "That I would know you better, if you allow.  That I wish to, to seek intimacy with you."

     It troubled him that Carver's smile faded, though he seemed more confused than displeased.  He reached for Cullen's hand and lifted it to show the fingers tacky with Carver's cooling seed.  "We're a little past the _courtship_ stage, yeah?"

     Maker.  He _had_ done that, hadn't he, grabbing at Carver's privates without even asking?  Face afire, Cullen blurted, "Pray forgive me -- "

     "Shut that.  Nothing to forgive.  It's just -- "  He shrugged, and finally stepped away to pull up his own pants.  Cullen felt his absence like a wound.  "Shit.  You just want to fuck me again, fine.  We'd have to do it somewhere else -- don't want Lusine to start getting ideas -- but, well -- "  His gaze slid toward Cullen again, intent and speculative, and Cullen shivered all over.  "I'm all right with it.  But 'seek intimacy'?  I don't get that."

     Cullen decided to tuck himself away and rearrange his clothing.  Safer than meeting Carver's gaze directly.  "Intimacy is not merely the meeting of flesh.   It is... trust.  Closeness.  A greater knowledge."

     "You just did me up against a wall, Cullen!  You don't _know_ me.  You came here to _get laid_ , for the Maker's sake.  Shit, this is all probably just -- "  Carver gestured vaguely, scowling.  "You just had a mouth on you for the first time in Maker knows how long, and it's gone to your head.  You'd probably feel the same way if I was any of them."  He jerked his head toward the Rose.

     "No."  Cullen stepped away from the wall and took his arm.  He wanted to touch more, so much more, but that would do, for now.  "I would feel nothing for any of those soft, false creatures, Carver.  What I came here seeking, foolishly perhaps, was,"  and he shifted uncomfortably, not liking the admission, "something more than mere pleasure.  I did not hope to find it, but... I have."

     "With me?"  Carver's eyes narrowed suddenly.  "You're not falling for me, are you?"

     _Yes_ , Cullen thought, helplessly.

     "I do not know," Cullen lied, looking away.  There was an elderly couple, probably thieves, sitting on a crate across the courtyard, openly grinning at them.  Probably in thanks for the show.  He squirmed in embarrassment and took a deep breath.  "I ask only for the chance to _find out_."

     Carver gazed at him for a long moment, perhaps disbelieving, perhaps just trying to understand.  Finally he sighed and stepped closer.  "Right, well...  I guess it's all right, you wanting to see me again.  But only if we fuck, every time."

     "Only -- "  Cullen started, his cheeks aflame.  "You would _require_ such a thing?"

     Carver shrugged.  "Obviously not if you're not feeling it, or if I'm not, but otherwise, yeah.  That'll keep things simple.  Maybe you'll stop looking at me like I'm made of gold once you get off enough to cool down.  And anyway -- "  He looked at Cullen's mouth, and everything within Cullen that should have been sated instantly grew needful again.  Carver's slow grin only made it worse.  "That was a good first kiss, so I figure we should try it again sometime.  Right?"

     And what else could Cullen say?  "R-right."

     "Well, then.  Next time."  Saluting casually, Carver sauntered off, all easy shoulders and loose-limbed walk, leaving Cullen in the courtyard shaking and wanting desperately to follow. 

     But he did not.  He was no hunter, certainly; that branch of the Templars had never appealed to him, and he was too straightforward a man for much in the way of sneaking about.  But he knew skittish quarry when he saw it, and right now his every instinct warned that pressing too hard, asking too much, would only send Carver fleeing for the hills.  So he would give the man space, and time, and he would court him -- despite Carver's objections -- but subtly.  And perhaps, Maker willing...

     _Required_ lovemaking, though?  Andraste's Flames.  Even now Cullen felt himself bruised all over his back where Carver had shoved him and pinned him to the wall.  His mouth was sore, and -- most embarrassingly; truly it had been too long -- there was a dull protest of overuse in his nether regions.  "Bride of the Maker, help me survive him," Cullen murmured, before he finally turned to head -- down a main street, and not that treacherous alleyway -- toward the Docks.

     But he stepped lightly as he walked, and had to fight the urge to smile the whole way home.


	2. Chapter 2

     Carver was half-asleep in the tub when Jethann shook him awake, smiling sweetly.  "Your prince is here, blueblood."

      Starting from the slump he'd fallen into, Carver wiped moisture from his face and sat up.  "Hnh?"  But there was only one person whom Jethann would tease him about -- the same person Jethann had been teasing him about, mercilessly, for the past week.  "Oh, are you _joking_?"  For sod's sake.  Cullen.

     "Not at all, beautiful.  But if it's any consolation, he's not here for _you_ this time.  Primarily."  Jethann sauntered away from the tub and over to the wall, where a shelf held bath implements and towels.  Browsing among the vials there, he selected one and brought it over, uncorking it and pouring it into the steaming water that Carver sat in.

     "Not here for -- "  He realized what Jethann was doing and cursed, trying to grab the vial (which Jethann simply lifted out of his reach), too late.  The scent of roses surrounded him, thick and heady and winelike.  " _The Void are you doing, you elven arse?_ "

     "You a favor," Jethann said, grinning.  "Captain Tired-Eyes is on his way up here now, and he's going to see you in that tub, and if you play your cards right you could have _such_ a nice afternoon.  I'll even let you use my room -- for a price."

     "Wait, he -- you -- "  Carver tried to sit up and slipped on the unfamiliar smooth porcelain floor of the tub, cursing.  Jethann let him use his tub because it was an amazing tub, and because Carver -- not being a top performer for the house like Jethann -- didn't have one of his own.  There was a communal bathroom in the basement, which Carver could have shared with the servants and the cheap-service performers, but he hated washing there.  Got shit from some because he didn't earn his keep on his back, and got shit from others because he wasn't technically a servant.  And since the rumor had gone around about him blowing Cullen in the courtyard -- which wasn't really a rumor but which he hadn't bothered to confirm, and which he didn't actually mind anyone knowing about because fuck, _Cullen_ , they were just jealous -- he'd also gotten shit from a few people who thought he had a nice mouth and ought to spread the wealth.  Only Jethann, out of all the performers at the Blooming Rose, seemed to actually like him.

     Except Jethann liked him a bit _too_ much.  "I'm not letting you go down on me again," Carver said, suspiciously.

     "Oh, blueblood.  Not that I wouldn't want a repeater in a heartbeat, because that cock of yours is _glorious_ , which is why I let you bathe in here, you know -- but I'm perfectly willing to compromise.  For the sake of your dignity."  Smiling innocently, Jethann performed a languid, dramatic fall back against an elaborate tapestry along one wall.  And then Carver knew what he wanted.

     "You sodding pervert," he said, glowering.

     "Guilty as charged."  Humming happily, Jethann opened a nightstand near the bed and set out objects, as if he was preparing for one of his own assignations:  an elaborately-worked glass flask that Carver knew contained the Rose's custom-blended slicking potion; a handful of paper envelopes containing Orlesian Letters; and --

     "Sodding Void, no," Carver said, going red-faced.  Jethann had taken out a ball gag.  "He's not ready for that!  Maker, _I'm_ not ready for that."

     Jethann sighed in disappointment and dutifully put the thing away.  "Shame.  He's just as pretty as you.  A few strategically-tied knots..."  With a wistful sigh, he winked.  "Well, I suppose I'll have to settle for seeing the present unwrapped, not _wrapped_ this time.  Anyway, have fun!"

     And with a jaunty wave he was gone, through the door at the rear of the room, which Carver knew led to a small alcove behind the wall in which were set a number of strategically-placed mesh screens.  Behind the tapestry, of course, concealed by the black parts of the fabric design.  Some of the Rose's clients paid for the privilege of watching Jethann at work; Jethann himself preferred the barter system.

     "Oh, for fuck's sake," Carver muttered, letting his head fall back on the tub's rim.  And then he looked up as, after a perfunctory knock, the door opened and Cullen strode in.

     It was the first time Carver had ever seen him in full Templar mode, and for a moment he could only stare in awe at this tall, golden, impossibly upright man who shone with the Maker's light off breastplate and greave and gauntlet.  Well, it was just lantern-light, and just a reflection, but... still.  Cullen's pace was brisk, his expression set and hard, and he seemed nothing at all like the lonely, unassuming man who'd been huddled at the Rose's bar a week before, clinging to a shitty drink like it was his last anchor in all the world.

     _Maker, I had **that**?_ he thought giddily, right before Cullen stopped short, granite face crumbling with recognition and surprise at the sight of Carver.  Then they stared at one another for a moment.

     "Uh, hey," Carver said, feeling awkward because of the tub.

     "Carver," Cullen said, sounding poleaxed.  Then he flushed.  "I -- I thought this room belonged to -- "

     Oh, sodding Void.  "You were looking for Jethann?"  Carver kept his voice neutral.

     "Yes," said Cullen, frowning.  "A woman downstairs directed me here."

     Lusine.  "Right."  _Right_.  Carver reached for the sides of the tub and braced himself to rise, to cover his disappointment.  But what the sod did he have to be disappointed about?  It was only what he'd encouraged Cullen to do, after all.  What he _wanted_ , really, because how was he supposed to keep people from getting Ideas if he kept tumbling some Templar bloke?  Jethann was a proper professional, far more skilled than Carver, and Cullen couldn't have picked better.

     But.  Shit.

     "Yes, I meant to question him -- "  And then Cullen turned red and spun around, as Carver stood up from the tub and reached for the towel.  "Forgive me!"

     "What?"  Oh, wait.  Really?  "Cullen, you can't be serious.  You had my dick in your hand a week ago."

     "Nevertheless, I've intruded," Cullen said stiffly.  "I must have found the wrong room.  I'll go back downstairs -- "

     "This is Jethann's room," Carver said, stepping down from the tub's wide ledge and drying himself.  "He lets me use it now and again when he's not working..."  Then it occurred to him what Cullen was saying, and what Jethann's disappearance meant, and a great knot of unease within him relaxed.  "Wait, Jethann's _not_ working right now.  _Lusine_ wouldn't have sent you up here!"  Which meant Cullen had come for something other than --  Flames, he was being a fool.

     "I spoke to a woman named Viveka, actually," Cullen confirmed, oblivious to Carver's relief. "Then this Jethann is out for the day?  Damnation."  Cullen still did not turn to him, but he frowned, folding his arms in thought.  Carver could see this since there were a good three mirrors in Jethann's room, and the oval-shaped one standing in the corner was perfectly angled to show that.  "I must question him about Ninette de Carrac."

     "Ninette?"  Startled, Carver glanced at the tapestry once before catching himself.  Cullen did not notice, in any case.  "Something up with her?"

     "You know her?" 

     "Yeah, she comes in once a week to have a drink with me and a tumble with Jethann.  I like her."  He liked that she didn't flirt with him the way so many of the other older women did.  _Too young to know any bedroom games worth playing_ , she'd said to him once, in a kindly sort of way, _and probably too much energy, in the way of young men.  I come here to_ relax _, you know_.  He didn't think he'd ever blushed harder.

     All business again, Cullen shook his head.  "She has gone missing, and her husband is offering a bounty for anyone who can find her.  Yet one of my senior knights is concerned that several women of a similar age have gone missing.  One is a Circle Mage, so I feel compelled to investigate the matter."

     Carver snorted.  "Morelike, she probably left her bastard of a husband, finally.  She told me he was an arse who married her for her money and then acted like she owed him something."

     "I see."  Cullen sighed, visibly slumping.  "This leaves me with no leads to pursue, and it is a far more plausible explanation than Emeric's fancies.  Perhaps I should stop humoring him.  Well -- "  All at once he was awkward again.  "I shall leave you to your bathing, then."  There was a pause, and perhaps it was only because Carver was watching his back that he saw the man's shoulders tighten.  "It was... good to see you, Carver."

     _Oh, no you don't._   Carver's hand tightened on his towel, and he blushed a little himself at the impulse that had come over him.  But Cullen was _right there_ , newly magnificent and fidgety as ever, shining and handsome and _Maker_ didn't that Templar getup outline his arse beautifully, and they had a bed this time even if it meant letting Jethann wank while they used it, so...  He licked his lips.

     "Yeah, good to see you, too," said Carver, tossing aside the towel and walking toward his back.  He tried to sound nonchalant as he said, "So, uh, need me to help you with your armor?"

     Cullen stiffened again, in surprise.  "What?"

     He had reached Cullen now, and could see himself in that immaculate metal.  It was full plate, even under the skirtlike robes, and the shield strapped to his back looked heavy as dragonbone.  Admiring, Carver reached up to stroke one of the pauldrons, and Cullen twitched as if he felt a blow.  "Always wanted proper armor," he said softly.  "Could never afford it, back home, and here -- "  He shrugged.  "I'm lucky just to keep a roof over my head."

     Cullen's head tilted back, just enough to let Carver see the side of his face.  "The Order is always seeking recruits."  His voice was soft, and a little uncertain.

     Carver chuckled, though it was forced.  "Told you about my brother, Cull."  _Didn't tell you about my sister_.  "I'm probably too much of a mage-sympathizer to be very good at locking them up."  He let his fingers trail along the back rim of the gorget, where the collar of Cullen's robe was visible, and could not quite help reaching out to finger the stiff red-embroidered cloth.  And if he touched a bit of the skin just above it, that was an understandable mistake, right?  When he did this, Cullen jumped, and Carver's hunger sharpened.  "And don't change the subject.  Remember what I said, last time?  If you came to see me again?  My requirement?"

     Cullen's swallow was audible.  Which meant he'd been thinking about it too; Carver grinned.  "Ah, you said that... ah... we would... um..."  The back of his neck had gone almost as red as his robe.

     He was never going to say it.  Carver suppressed a laugh.  "Right.  So, need some help with your armor?  It'll go faster with two of us working at it."  With his other hand he reached around to work his fingers under the band of cloth at Cullen's waist; Cullen inhaled audibly and caught his hand, though gently.

     "I am on duty," he said, sounding pained.

     "And it's not like you're shirking it."  Working his fingers free, since Cullen wasn't trying very hard to stop him, Carver found where the cloth was folded under and discreetly knotted, and grinned as he loosened it.  Beneath it lay the buckle of Cullen's tassets; ah, _this_ had potential.  "You didn't come here just to see me, after all.  And you got useful information, didn't you?"  He tugged at the main tasset buckle, and the soft well-worn leather came free easily; it was the work of a moment to pull the tassets away.  "Keep asking me questions about Ninette if you want."

     "Maker give me strength," Cullen murmured.  But he did not resist when Carver laid the tassets on the floor.  Nor when Carver slid his fingers over the chain shirt that showed at Cullen's hips.  He loosened the laces that held the breastplate together, and started on the greaves, moving slowly the whole while to give Cullen time to stop him.  If he was going to.

     Cullen let out a soft, strained breath.  Then, with his hands shaking visibly, he began pulling off his gauntlets.

     _Got you_.

     With the two of them working at it, it indeed took only a little while to get Cullen out of the layers of plate, and chain beneath that, and gambeson beneath that.  After so much work, Cullen looked almost naked in just the shirt and trousers -- so much so that Carver could not help himself:  he slipped his arms around Cullen from behind and pressed himself against the man's back.  "You been thinking about me?" he asked.

     He could feel the way Cullen's chest heaved just a little beneath his hands, and in the mirror he saw Cullen's mouth fall open a little, his eyes half-lidding.  "Y-yes.  Of course."

     Like any man would keep thinking about the bloke they'd gotten sucked off by in an alley.  Carver shook his head, bemused, and slid his hands down the front of Cullen's shirt.  The material was loose and soft, outlining all the contours of his torso, hard and lean and smooth and perfect.  Everything Carver had imagined he would be under the shapeless clothes he'd worn last time.  And he _smelled_ good; Carver put his face into the curve of Cullen's neck and breathed sweat and incense and just the faintest whiff of lyrium, so familiar that a moment he felt homesick for their farmhouse in Ferelden, in happier times.

     _Got me a nice chunk of Ferelden right here, though_.

     "Good," Carver said against his skin, and Cullen shuddered violently.  "'Cause I've been thinking about you."

     "I, I feared to visit again too soon," Cullen blurted.  Then he cut himself off, as if he hadn't meant to say that.

     Surprised, Carver smiled against the side of his face.  "Why?"

     Cullen did not reply for a moment -- though he did turn his head enough that Carver could see his face at last.  His expression was surprisingly shadowed.  "I did not wish to seem..."  He seemed to grope for the word.

     "Clingy?  Pushy?"

     Cullen grimaced.  "Desperate."

     Even now, he was trembling slightly beneath Carver's hands.  Carver had noticed this about him before, and wondered what it meant.  Was he afraid, somehow?  That seemed impossible, a man so strong.  Maybe he just _wanted_ too much; all those years of pent-up need straining to be unleashed.  Experimentally Carver bit him, lightly and just below his ear, letting his breath tickle the edge of jaw and hairline, and the shudder that rippled through Cullen was so powerful that Carver immediately knew he'd guessed right.

     "Nothing desperate about wanting what you want, Cull."  For a moment he had to stop, amused by the irony.  Isabela had told him that not long after they'd met, and he'd scoffed at her then.  But like everything else he'd figured out about her over the years, there was more wisdom in it than at first glance.  He dragged his nails down Cullen's shirt, then flattened his palms against the front of his close-fitting trousers, and reveled in the feel of heat and hardness beneath his hands.  Cullen made a low, abortive sound, like he was trying not to moan; Maker, the man was so wound-up it was a wonder he didn't explode.

     "A Templar's strength," Cullen said, panting, his head falling back and eyes fluttering shut, "l-lies in his focus."

     "Yeah."  Carver reached up and turned Cullen's face to the side, taking a gentle kiss from his lips.  "So _focus_ on us, yeah?  Just my hands, just my mouth.  Just for a little while."

     Cullen nodded, swallowing with some difficulty, and finally turned to face him.  Pleased, Carver stepped back and spread his arms, letting him have a good look.  Cullen's eyes drifted down as Carver had hoped they would.  It was the one thing that had always worked in his favor since coming to Kirkwall; maybe it was his Kirkwaller noble blood, but everyone here seemed to think he was a looker.

     'Course, maybe that was only because Garrett wasn't around anymore.  Inwardly, he sighed a little.

     But when Cullen lifted his eyes, his face was set and tight and intent in a way that Carver could not interpret.  "You are magnificent, Carver."

     Startled into a laugh, Carver lowered his arms and shifted from foot to foot.  "Don't know about all _that_."

     "You doubt me."  Cullen's face softened into a slight smile, though his eyes were just as unnerving in their intensity.  He reached out to draw his fingertips along Carver's collarbone, as if he'd wanted to touch there all along.  "Such fine, smooth skin.  Such strength and pride to bear it.  If you told me you were a lost prince, I would believe it."

     _I'm never going to live down that blueblood crap now._   Carver grimaced, and only by an act of supreme will kept himself from looking toward the tapestry.  "I'm a farmboy, Cull.  Nothing special."

     "That is a lie."  And Cullen stepped closer, sliding a hand around the back of his neck and -- Maker, when had Cullen learned to talk like that, all low and shivery-making?  "You are everything of specialness."

     What did that mean?

     "Let me show you the truth of things, Carver."  He leaned in, his lips parting, as Carver stood there, still confused.

     And.  Oh, fuck.

     Oh _fuck_.

     He'd forgotten their first time, when he'd asked for a kiss and ended up squatting on the filthy flagstones, trying to swallow Cullen's cock whole while the man shouted above him.  The kiss was as good now as it was then -- no, better.  It was all heat and nibbling and suction; it was fingers massaging his scalp and the tickle of beard and the stir of breath.  It was -- fuck, _fuck_ \-- the warmth and heat of a body pressing against his and saying with tension and posture all the things that its owner was too shy to speak aloud.  Like _Did you notice I'm strong enough to hold you against a wall for hours_ , and also _You really, really want me on top of you, right?_   Which was ludicrous, because _Hold me down and lick every inch of my skin_ sounded pretty sodding perfect, too.

     He wanted all of it and then some.  He wanted it now.  So he grabbed Cullen's shirt and stepped back and hauled him down and there was tumbling and some fumbling and Cullen grunted free when they landed, ending the kiss.  Which was just sodding _unacceptable_.  So Carver threw a leg over Cullen to hold him in place and sat up to yank on the belt of Cullen's trousers.  He'd _rip_ the flaming things off if he had to.

     Cullen laughed, his voice a little shaky and breathy, but at least he helped, pulling his shirt over his head and lifting his hips when Carver yanked his pants off.  Then he jerked and cried out as if stung, which was silly because all Carver had done was fasten his mouth to one of those so-inviting brown nipples, and wrap his fingers around that gorgeous ready cock.  "OhMakerCarverpleasedon't!"

     _What?_   Frowning, Carver lifted his eyes, though he kept licking at the taut little nub, and pumping his hand gently.

     "Nnh -- please -- oh that is, is so, I did not think.  Could feel so."  Cullen was glorious, a gold-and-tan thing writhing in the bedsheets, struggling for coherence.  "I, I would not -- nnh!"  With an Andrastean effort, he tangled his fingers in Carver's to still his hand, and jerked away from his tongue.  Taking a deep breath -- for _focus_ , maybe, ha ha -- Cullen tried again.  "I... would not be selfish with you again, Carver."

     "The sod are you talking about?"

     Cullen blushed violently.  But then he shifted just a little, and nudged up with his leg where Carver's cock pressed hard and ready against it.  "Let me please you this time."

     Oh.  But -- Carver grinned, running his thumb down the underside of Cullen's shaft before Cullen could stop him.  "You think I don't like doing this?  Watching what it does to you?"

     Cullen did not cry out this time; he just went rigid all over for a moment, then relaxed only after a harsh, shaky breath.  "C-clearly.  But -- "  All at once his expression grew pained.  "I do not wish to only _take_ , Carver, and never give back.  Please.  Anything.  Tell me what you want of me.  _Show me_."

     _Maker.  Anything?_   Carver swallowed.  "I _do_ like this, you know."  He kissed Cullen's nipple again, loving the way the man twitched all over.  "But maybe..."

     The thought was in his mind now.  He sat up, licking his lips, and reached for the bottle of slick.  Cullen watched this, watched _him_ , with such hunger in his face that Carver could almost feel his gaze as a touch.  "Fuck, that's nice."

     Cullen blinked.  "What?"

     "The way you're looking at me.  The view.  All of it.  You're sodding amazing."  He paused and ran a hand down Cullen's body appreciatively, then gently coaxed him onto his side.  "How the Maker are you not fucking your way through the Gallows?  Half the mages and Templars alike must be after you."

     Cullen rolled over obediently, blushing a little.  "I c-cannot lie with a mage. Among the others... There have been... flirtations, yes."

     Carver just figured.  He wet both hands with the slick and set the bottle aside, then reached down to stroke Cullen's cock again, bending to kiss his shoulder as he did so.  "I'll try to live up to the competition."

     Cullen made a soft desperate noise.  "Th-there is --  Carver, oh, your hand, I cannot -- "

     "Shh.  I've got you."  Very gently he cupped Cullen's balls, massaging them out of tight readiness.  "Want this to last a bit, yeah?"

     "Yes."  Cullen let out a soft breath; he was shaking again, but at least he'd relaxed a little.  "That is... thank you."  Then he inhaled again as Carver's other hand stroked along the cleft of his ass.

     "Like that, do you?"  Carver grinned and nudged Cullen's legs apart to give himself room to work.  "What about this?"  He kissed Cullen's ear and slid two fingers into him, at the same time taking hold of his cock again for a good hard stroke.

     The sound that Cullen made was deep and resonant and so gratifying that Carver shivered.  Maker, it was like playing an instrument -- or better, putting a sword through its paces.  He worked his fingers deeper, stroking steadily once he found the place that made Cullen's eyes fly open and his feet churn on the sheets, and kept tugging his cock just enough to keep him on the edge.  Cullen was boneless, helpless, his whole body twitching as he made wordless pleading sounds, and it was just so fucking _beautiful_. He could do this to Cullen all day.  And he wasn't even thinking about stepping things up as he slid in a third finger, and Cullen's body opened right up like Carver had come home.

     But then Cullen's voice broke as he blurted out, _"Carver,"_ and it was so deep and desperate and -- shit.  The sound of him, prim proper upright sword of the Maker reduced to _this_ , made Carver's whole body ring with sudden, stunning, dizzying _want_.

     "Anything, Cull?  You mean that?"  He whispered it in Cullen's ear, swallowing; his voice had gotten so rough.  If Lusine knew, he'd be in trouble.  The Rose's performers were never to ask this of customers, and customers could only get it if they asked for it, explicitly, in advance.  Especially not with Templars, because even the Carta tried not to piss them off.  _Men and women -- especially men -- who have that kind of power like to be on top_ all _the time,_ Lusine had said, and Carver figured she was probably right. 

     But Carver wasn't a performer, and Cullen wasn't buying; and anyway, Cullen wasn't like the other Templars.  He'd gone without for years rather than take the easy meat in the Gallows.  He wanted something real, and Carver wanted to give it to him.  Did that make a difference?

     And when Cullen sobbed and half-buried his face in the sheets and lifted his hips in a blatant physical plea, when he blurted, "Anything, anything, ah, Maker, _Carver_ , anything you want, I am yours, please..."

     Yeah.  Fuck Lusine.  "Right, then."

     He coaxed Cullen over on his belly and straddled his legs and eased his fingers out and his cock in all in one smooth slide, lacing his fingers through Cullen's as he settled into place.  And then he had to stop, almost at once, because suddenly he was _right there_.  "Oh, soddingMakerVoid.  Uh..."  He had to think of something, anything, other than the sound of Cullen breathing hard, and the feel of Cullen quivering beneath him, and the tight sweet tension of _oh fuck I'm inside him and it's sodding amazing_ \--

     Drunk-buckets.  That sweaty-handed dwarf who'd tried to get into his pants the night before.  Idunna, sneering at him.  That bastard Meeran.

     It was horrible, but it helped pull him back from the brink so that he could catch his breath and come back to himself.  Beneath him Cullen had tensed a little, and he was tight as the Deep Roads; it must've been awhile for him.  _Shit, and here I am being a bad lover_.  Contrite, Carver kissed his ear and rocked slowly, murmuring soothing nonsense and working his hips to find the right angle until he finally did something right and Cullen groaned and shuddered and went to pieces.

     "Carver."  He _loved_ the way Cullen said his name, and the way he sounded deep in pleasure.  "Oh.  Oh, Carver."

     He knew the feeling.  "You're so bloody _perfect_ , Cull."  He kept it slow, easy, none of the rough stuff that his own partners had done to him over the years, and maybe what Cullen might be used to from his thuggish fellow Templars.  Cullen deserved better than that.  "You... you need someone -- oh, fuck -- someone who's _good_ , like you, someone who'll fucking, nnh, _care_.  You feel so, so, _fuck_ , Cull, I'm gonna -- I'm gonna take care of you.  I'm gonna be good for you, just once, because you should have, someone worthy, oh Maker I want to be..."

And _shit_ he couldn't keep talking.  _Shit_ he couldn't think.  Fumbling a hand down beneath Cullen, he found the man's cock -- still slick despite the sheets, still hard as the dwarven Stone.  One stroke and Cullen made a sound like nothing Carver had ever heard before: a sort of groaning scream that rang through them both like a hammer on a bell.  It left Carver only the barest room for thought -- _oh, oh I can't_ \-- before he lost all presence of mind and gripped Cullen's hand hard and kissed his way across the man's shoulders and hammered down into him like he was laying fencepost.

     And all of a sudden Cullen was shouting, and his cock was pulsing in Carver's hand, and Carver was moaning and cursing and babbling things that made no sense, and _fuck_ he was coming so hard that he couldn't _see_ \--

     -- and then they lay, panting and limp, coming back to themselves only slowly and in pieces.

     Maker.

     He didn't want to move.  It was almost as nice to lie like this, letting his breath slow in pace with Cullen's, as the rutting had been.  Still, Cullen would feel guilty for shirking his duty at some point, so reluctantly Carver disentangled himself and got up to uncover the basin of water that stood on the bed's other nightstand.  There was a stack of fresh towels beside it, and the water was soapy and scented, so he wet one and began smoothing it over Cullen's limp body in slow steady strokes. 

     Cullen was quiet throughout this process -- not sleeping, to judge by the way his breath caught whenever Carver preceded the cloth with a kiss or a caress, or washed a still-sensitive spot.  Just quiet.  When Carver murmured for him to turn over, he did so, and Carver took care to get every drop of oil and spend and sweat of his skin.  That was hard, because it was _Cullen's skin_ , and it took everything he had not to lick it off and start them both up again.  He took his time with the washing, though.  Because he could.

     He'd wet another towel, using it to stroke Cullen's forehead and down that long noble nose of his, when he found Cullen watching him, gaze dark and heavy with some unspoken import.  Puzzled, Carver stopped.  "You all right?"

     "Yes."  He lifted a hand, cupped Carver's cheek.  His palm was very warm.  "Thank you."

     Carver blushed.  No one had ever thanked him for a tumble, either.  "Don't tell Lusine."

     Cullen's brows drew together.  "Would she begrudge you even a little pleasure?"

     "It's supposed to be about _your_ pleasure.  That's what people come here to buy."

     Cullen shook his head and pushed himself up on one elbow.  "You aren't for sale.  And I did not come here just for _this_."  He touched Carver's thigh.

     Uneasy -- and unsure why he was uneasy -- Carver shifted a little, and Cullen's hand fell away.  "Right," he said, and flinched as his voice sounded more gruff than necessary.  "You came to ask after Ninette."

     There was a moment when it seemed as though Cullen might beg to differ.  There was something so powerful in his gaze that Carver stopped, blinking, and realizing --

     "Yes," Cullen said, finally.  "Ninette."

     -- realizing, _Fuck.  He's falling for me._

     And realizing something far, far worse.

     _Maker.  It's not just sex I want from him._

     No.  No no no shit no.

     "May I see you again?"  Cullen asked quietly.

     Not good.  Not good at all.  Carver licked his lips and looked away.  "Why?"

     Cullen caught his hand, lifting it to his lips.  The brush of his fingers made Carver shiver.  "Because I wish to."

     Meeran all over again.  No.

     " _Why?_ "  Carver made himself speak harshly, even though it felt _wrong._   He had to do this.  He couldn't lose another place here in Kirkwall.  And if he cut this off here, now, before anybody got hurt too badly -- Cullen would thank him, one day. 

     So pulled his hand away from Cullen and got to his feet.  "I'm nothing, Cull.  Just another Ferelden refugee.  Just another _whore_."

     Surprised, Cullen sat up and moved to the edge of the bed, frowning at him.  "You aren't -- "

     Carver laughed, bitterly, beginning to pace to vent his sudden restlessness.  "I _am_.  I'm just too sodding proud to admit it.  I sell my sword and my smile, if not my arse, and the Maker knows if things get any harder I'll sell that too.  You shouldn't want me.  You shouldn't _look_ at me like that."

     "Like what?"

     "Like I'm bloody special!  I'm not!  I'm just _not_!"

     When Cullen stood and came at him, Carver stopped and braced himself.  Cullen didn't seem the type, but you could never tell.  He stopped in front of Carver, though, not touching him -- and not looking away.  "I'll thank you," he said, very softly, "not to tell me how to use my own eyes.  If I want to gaze at you and think you a wonder, I will."

     Always so bloody prim-and-proper.

     It was Carver's turn to be silent then as Cullen sighed and turned away and began getting dressed.  He should've offered to help, since he'd been the one to coax Cullen out of all that armor; he should've done everything he could to send the man on his way as fast as he could go.  And then he should skip town for a few months, or years.  But he couldn't, because helping meant that Cullen would be gone faster, and he didn't want --

     Shit.  _Shit_.

     Cullen was fast enough about it, and after awhile he turned, shining and mail-clad again.  "You have honored me," he said, blushing a bit as he inclined his head.  _Bowing?  Really?_   "I would ask to keep the token of your favor, but..."

     "Er... yeah," Carver said, wondering how Cullen could _be_ like this, so sodding perfect, talking like some prince out of a bard's tale -- and then blushing himself as he realized what Cullen meant.  "Oh, sodding Void, I should've used a Letter; you don't know where I've been."

     Cullen laughed a little, uncomfortably turning it into a cough.  "There are healers at the Circle if... well.  I do not mind the risk."  After a moment he sobered.  "May I, Carver?  See you again?"

     Fuck, fuck, fuck.

     "Probably not a good idea," he made himself say, fixing his gaze on the bed's rumpled sheets.

     There was a moment of aching silence from Cullen's direction.

     "As you wish," he said at last.  Tonelessly.

     Why did that hurt?

     Then Cullen turned to leave and why did that sodding hurt?  It didn't make sense, he barely even knew the man, he was a bloody _Templar_ for flames' sake.  Carver kept his gaze on the bed, watching it and not letting himself blink until his sight started to blur.  He was shaking as he heard Cullen put his hand on the doorknob.  _Why did he fucking hurt all over?_

     Then Cullen paused, keeping his back to Carver.  "Should you change your mind," he began, and then faltered to silence.  For a moment Carver thought he would not continue, and then he squared those great shining shoulders of his.  "I may be found at the Gallows."

     At this, Carver had to laugh.  "You don't really want me to come find you there, Cull.  Too many of your Templars have seen me here.  What'll they think?"

     "I do not _care_ what they might think."  Carver jumped, for Cullen's voice had gone sharp all of a sudden; after a moment he exhaled.  "Please keep that in mind, Carver."

     And then he was gone.

     Carver sat down on the bed.  He stayed there until Jethann came through the room's back door, sidled over to the bed, and sat down next to him with a sigh.  He put a hand over Carver's, sympathetically; Carver took a deep breath.  "I'll change the bed linens," he began.

     "Leave it.  That's the servants' job."  He leaned forward then, into Carver's view so that Carver had to look at him.  "You sure you want to do this, blueblood?  Just let him walk away?"

     "He needs a lover, not a whore."  He snorted, too bitter to manage a laugh.  "I'm not much of either."

     "You could be.  A lover, I mean."

     "No, I can't.  I'm just the fellow who helped him get off after he went years without.  It's gone to his head."

     "Oh, blueblood."  Jethann rolled his eyes.  "A man doesn't talk like that to someone who just gave him a pity-tumble, no matter how good it was.  And he certainly doesn't let just anyone have him for the first time.  That's more than lust."

     "For the first -- "  Blinking, Carver frowned at him.  " _First time?_   But -- "  Could it be?  But Cullen was _older_ , by lots.  And he was handsome and kind, and he lived on an island full of bored horny people --

     -- none of whom he'd been tumbling.  Oh, Maker.

     "You had your eyes on other things, beautiful -- not that I blame you -- but I was watching his face.  There's nothing quite like the way a man looks that first time, if it's done right.  All tense at first because he's scared even if he won't admit it; then surprised when it's not as bad as he feared; then _amazed_ when he realizes just how good it feels..."  Jethann sighed wistfully.  "That's love, blueblood.  When someone shares something like that with you? It's love."

     Then he eyed Carver sidelong, a wry smile on his lips.  "And when you dump a man, but sit here looking like someone drove a blade into _your_ guts and left it there..."

     Carver closed his eyes, aching.  "Jeth, I can't... I'm not...  I'm nothing.  A nobleman with no estate and no money.  A farmboy without a farm.  I failed as a soldier.  I can't make it into the Guard, they won't even interview me.  I couldn't keep my brother alive.  I don't even have a _dog_."  He'd never said these things to anyone but Bethany, and he shouldn't be telling any of it to Jethann, who was a horrible gossip -- but the words just spilled out, like blood from a wound.  "He's bloody perfect, and I've got _nothing_ to offer him.  Hell, I'll probably -- I'll probably ruin his career or something, besmirch his honor or whateverthefuck men like him prattle on about -- "

     "Hardly.  Meredith seems to like dirty Templars."  Jethann made a face.

     "Maybe, but he's still got that, and I've got squat!  What am I going to do, bring him to that Lowtown hovel to meet the family, ask him not to mind Gamlen drunk in a corner, pray my mother doesn't start asking Cullen about his income and if he's got any sisters, and by the way, _please don't lock up my apostate twin sister for life_?"

     Jethann rolled his eyes.  "Your sister can take care of herself.  Or if she doesn't, I hear Athenril's taking good care of her.  Only person not taken care of in your family is _you_ , blueblood.  You're so busy worrying about everybody else; maybe it's time you did something for yourself, for a change.  Something special."

     _If I want to gaze at you and think you a wonder, I will._

     "I don't know what to do," Carver said, softly.

     Jethann sighed and got up, taking Carver's hand and pulling him to his feet.  "First, you're going to get back in that tub and get clean again, sad as it'll be to see that lovely ass of yours back in clothes.  Then you're going to work the room tonight like you own it.  Make everyone look at you, everyone _want_ you, even if you're not for sale.  _Especially because_ you're not for sale.  Drink so much that when you go to bed tonight, late, you'll be so tired and so tipsy that you won't dream of him.  That's what you're going to do.  That's what _I'd_ do."

     Carver, shuffling after him, blinked and frowned.  "Have you ever, um, done this?  Gotten too close to someone?"

     Jethann got Carver over to the tub of cooling water, turning him toward it and giving him a pat on the back towards it.  "I'm going downstairs to order dinner," he said, with a smile.  "Want something?"

     He was out of the room before Carver had a chance to say anything.

#

     He followed Jethann's advice.

     It was hard at first, working the room.  Like acting in a minstrel play when he didn't know the lines; it felt false and wrong and ugly.  But he made himself grin broadly and greet every customer whose name he could remember, throwing a cheery, "Hey!" at those whose names he'd forgotten.  And when he spied a new face, he poured on the charm, guiding them to the bar if they seemed nervous, or making risque suggestions if they seemed eager but tense.  If he got them smiling before he handed them off to their chosen performer, he knew he'd done the job.

     "We'll have to make sure you get an afternoon shag before every evening service," Lusine said in a snide undertone, when he came over to the bar to pick up a round for a group of Guardswomen in one corner.  "Certainly seems to have done wonders for your technique."  He bit his tongue and winked at her, and the look of sour surprise on her face was almost enough to make him feel better.

     Almost.

     His shift ended at three, and though he was tired, he was only half as drunk as he needed to be if he didn't want to dream of -- things.  So he retired to an out-of-the-way stack of crates outside in the courtyard, with a bottle of about-to-go-off Montzimmard between his knees, and he'd just about managed to get there when he heard, "What in the Maker's name, Carver?"

     Bethany.  She stood there like it wasn't the middle of the night, and he ached at the sight of her like he hadn't seen her just a few days before.  Beyond her he spied Athenril and her gang, heading into the Rose; they looked flush with cash and victory.  Athenril glanced back, saw him, and lifted an eyebrow, then pointedly headed inside, leaving them alone to talk.

     "Here," he said, offering Bethany the bottle, though there wasn't much in it but the dregs.  She waved it off and sat down on a crate facing him, frowning.

     "You know I don't drink.  Why are you sitting out here alone, stewed as a lord?  Anyone could knock you in the head and take your purse, Carver."

     "Pish."  Carver let his head fall back against another crate, hard enough to thump.  "I'm a big strong warrior, remember?  I'll be fine."

     "Without a sword?"

     Oh.  Right.  "It's in my room.  I'll go fetch it."

     He'd half gotten up when she caught his arm, and healing energy swept through him like a brisk wind.  "What --  Fucking _Void_ , Beth!"

     "You'd have a head in the morning!"

     "I _want_ a head in the morning!"  And now he was suddenly sober enough to think of the double entendre of those words, and to remember the heavy smoothness of Cullen in his mouth, and to look across the courtyard at the wall where they'd done that, and --  Groaning, he collapsed back onto the crate and drew up his knees, burying his head in his hands.  "Oh, sod it, now I have to get drunk _again_.  Thanks _ever_ so bloody much."

     "Carver."  She sounded surprised, and he hated her for that.  For acting like everything was _normal_.  But then she put a hand on his head, and by the softness of it he knew she understood somehow that something was wrong, maybe because she was his twin and she knew everything that mattered about him.  And that made everything hurt all over again until he pushed his hands into his hair and buried his face so she wouldn't see it and pulled at his scalp until his eyes watered.  That was the only possible reason his eyes were wet, of course.

     She didn't ask, though.  He loved that she never tried to pry, even when he kind of secretly wanted her to.

     "What'd you come here for?"  He said the words to his own upraised knees, and tried not to sniff.

     "I missed you."

     "Liar."

     He could feel her smile.  He'd always been able to feel those.  "We managed to get a shipment of lyrium dust into town with the Templars none the wiser, and without a single casualty.  Athenril wanted to celebrate."

     Shit.  Carver tightened his hands on his hair again.  "Don't like you doing stuff that'll piss off the Templars."

     "Oh, I'll plead innocent if they catch me."  She got up and joined him on his crate, leaning against his side.  "'I'm just a poor refugee corrupted by circumstances, taken advantage of by a dashing elf,' something like that.  If they Harrow me I'll pass just fine; can't be any worse than what Father put us through in our training."

     She spoke so blithely of ending up in the Circle.  "If they catch you, they'll _kill_ you."

     Cullen.  Might kill her.

     "No, they only do that to people who smuggle pure lyrium -- the stuff Templars take.  Lyrium dust is just for potion-making, and all we're cheating them out of is the ridiculous taxes they make licensed importers pay.  Athenril keeps us out of anything that might put us on the target of the Carta, or the Gallows."  She sighed wistfully, and his belly tightened.  "She takes good care of us, Carver.  I wish you would reconsider -- "

     "No."

     "She's not like Meeran."  Bethany rested her head on his shoulder.

     "She's fucking _you_ , isn't she?"

     Bethany coughed, and he could almost feel the heat of her face.  "It's not the same.  I... I care about her.  And she cares about me."

     Didn't matter.  Nothing was free in this world.  No offer could be trusted.  There were always strings attached -- or chains.  Bethany just didn't mind hers.

     When he said nothing, she sighed and let him wallow awhile longer, then said, "I have some freelance work for you, if you want."

     "What?"

     She shifted a little, uncomfortably.  "I've been hired to find someone.  A mage who's missing, in the foundry district."

     Frowning, Carver finally lifted his head to stare at her.  "Who sent you looking for a mage?"

     Bethany bit her lip and suddenly found her nails very interesting.  "Someone who can pay.  That's all that matters, right?"

     "I'm not one of those criminals you hang about, Bethy; it matters."

     She sighed and rolled her eyes.  "All right.  A Templar."

     _Cullen_.  No, that was ridiculous.  _"What?"_

     "An old one!"  She held up both hands, waving frantically for him to keep his voice down.  "The older ones are nicer, Carver, they remember what it was like in Father's day -- "

     "Father _ran_ from here, remember?"  He kept his voice down, but that didn't stop him from leaning close to snarl the words at her.

     " _With the help of a Templar_ ," she snapped back.  "A Templar like the one I'm dealing with.  He wants to help this mage, Carver!  She's missing, along with a lot of other women, and he's afraid for her.  _Some_ Templars are decent, for Andraste's sake!"

     Some of them were, yes.  Then Carver blinked, understanding suddenly.  "Ninette."

     "What?"

     He shook his head.  "Nothing.  I just.  I know someone who, uh, was looking for one of these women."  He licked his lips, and for a moment thought he tasted Cullen on them.  "A-another Templar."

     She looked at him oddly, and abruptly he realized his voice or face or something must have changed, so quickly he cleared his throat.  She lifted an eyebrow, but dutifully changed the subject.  "Right.  Well.  I want to go have a look at the foundry."

     "Not alone -- "

     "Of course not, silly, that's why I'm asking you."  She squeezed his arm.

     Oh.  He considered, sitting up as the prospect of something important to do pulled him out of melancholy.  "Yeah, all right.  But we should take Isabela, too."

     Bethany blushed.  "Athenril doesn't like it when I moonlight with her."

     "Shame.  Isabela likes _her_.  Not just you."  He grinned, and Bethany groaned; Isabela had been hinting at a threesome for awhile now.

     "I don't share," she said, haughtily.  "And speaking of sharing -- if we take Isabela, we'll have to split the take three ways!"

     He rolled his eyes.  "You're talking about doing a break-in, right?  Can magic undo a lock?  I could try smashing it with my sword pommel -- "

     "Oh, fine, fine."  Bethany got up and extended a hand to help him up.  "Go find her, and we'll do it tomorrow night.  Let's meet here again at midnight."

     He rose, grabbing the empty bottle he'd been drinking out of before it could tip and smash on the flagstones, and nodded.  When he spied her frowning at the bottle, he sighed and put it behind his back.

     "Carver..."  She kept his hand, searching his face in worry.

     "I'm all right."  That was a lie, and he didn't like lying to her.  "Well, I will be.  Promise."

     Her jaw tightened.  "Did Lusine -- "

     "Maker, no.  She likes having her blueblood on the payroll, and I'll walk if she tries anything."

     "Meeran again?  Isabela?  Someone new?"  Her eyes narrowed.  "This 'other Templar' of yours?"

     Oh, for sod's sake.  He took her shoulders, gently.  "Don't be Garrett," he said, and she winced.  "I loved him, but he was a sodding busybody; _let me handle myself_."

     Her bottom lip quivered; he always hated mentioning Garrett to her, because of that.  "Fine."  And because that was the best he would ever get out of her, Carver sighed and let her go.

     They walked into the Rose together, and he hugged her there in the foyer and murmured in her ear that he was going to his room as fast as he could so he wouldn't have to think about his sister having sex, _ever_ , and she giggled and shoved him away and it was like old times.  Happy times.  So he waved goodbye and turned to head into the back of the house -- but she caught his hand.

     "I don't like that someone broke your heart," she said, softly.

     He sighed, not turning back to her, though he did squeeze her hand.  "Broke it myself," he said.  "Wanting something I shouldn't.  But I'll get over it.  Good _night_ , Beth."

     With that, he headed off -- to bed, if not to sleep, now that he was so unpleasantly sober.  But he felt Bethany's eyes on his back until the door shut in his wake.


	3. Chapter 3

     In the small hours of the morning, in the dark of his quarters, Cullen lay awake thinking of skittish quarry.

     It was how he'd thought of Carver that first night, after their fevered coupling in the courtyard shadows.  And indeed his instincts had been proven right, now that -- in his ham-handedness -- he had provoked the young man into flight.  He had thought it would be enough to keep his feelings behind his teeth, unvoiced.  Yet he'd been unable to stop himself from _feeling_ them, and touching Carver with tenderness, and speaking to him in ways that doubtless revealed his feelings anyway.  And, apparently, looking at Carver as if he was special.

     _I'm nothing, Cull.  Just another whore_.

     Cullen's jaw tightened.  It was an offense to the Maker's creation that someone so beautiful and good held himself so low.

     _Why_ had Carver rejected him?  That was the worst of it, the lack of understanding.  It was Carver's right to reject him without explanation, but if Carver had felt nothing for him, Cullen could have accepted it easily.  He would have swallowed his own hurt as just desserts for prideful assumptions.  But Cullen felt sure that he had not mistaken the tenderness in Carver's touch, or the wonder in his eyes when he'd finally realized the depth of Cullen's affection.  For a moment, Cullen was certain, Carver had returned those feelings.  And then -- had that been anguish in Carver's face, as he'd turned away?  Yes, almost certainly.  But also... fear. 

     Sitting up in the dark, Cullen rested his forearms on his knees, frowning to himself.  _Fear_.  Why?  And was this just the usual fear of intimacy that any young man felt?  Or something else?

     _Something else_.  Yes, he was almost sure of it. Carver had been skittish _before_ the rejection, after all.  At their first meeting, even as he'd charmed Cullen by the Rose's bar:  when Cullen had inadvertently maligned Carver's brother, Carver had almost left.  Understandable, since with an apostate brother Carver would likely have been trained from childhood to regard Templars as the enemy.  Was that it, then?  But Carver's brother was dead; surely Carver knew he had nothing to fear from Cullen now.

     And for that matter -- why did Carver work at the Rose at all?  Life in Kirkwall was difficult for Fereldan refugees, certainly, but Carver was young, strong, healthy.  He claimed to have fought at Ostagar, too, so perhaps he had some martial skill.  The Guard was always hiring if he found the Templars unpalatable, and there were mercenary companies a-plenty looking for a blade with battle experience.  And that was if Carver limited himself to the city's above-board business; the Coterie was said to run the Rose, and surely Carver could have found more respectable employment amid their fighters' ranks than in a whorehouse's common room.

     But not _more lucrative_ employment, perhaps.  Cullen frowned to himself, considering.  A mercenary made enough to support himself, but was unlikely to grow wealthy off the work -- certainly not before taking some fatal injury, anyhow.  Which meant that there was something Carver sought by working at the Rose.  Some financial goal for which he was willing to sell more than just his sword to achieve.  But what could possibly be worth him courting prostitution?

     Unbidden the memory of Carver crouched in a pool of moonlight, eyes shut as his tongue and hands worked, sent a shudder of longing through Cullen.  But to think of Carver doing that for anyone else --

     He had no right to demand anything of Carver, nor even to ask, now that Carver had made his wishes clear.  But.

     Sighing, Cullen lay back down and shifted restlessly in a futile effort to get comfortable.  He _ached_ , in more than body, though his flesh still rang with the pleasures that Carver had taught him that afternoon.  The skin across his shoulders stung from the scrape of Carver's teeth, and his mouth felt raw, bruised by kisses.  And though he had washed, he could still smell Carver on him, unless that was just wishful thinking.  He could still feel Carver heavy upon him, arms tight around him, _inside_ him, something of his presence lingering in the twinge of soreness down below and the thick satisfaction Cullen had never, ever expected to experience after letting a man do -- that -- to him.  Clearly he'd dealt with too many ill-used mages and imprisoned heretics over the years; it had never occurred to him that such a thing could feel _good_.  
  
 _Or perhaps it is simply that he could do anything to me, anything, and I would enjoy it, because it involved him._

     Madness.  But he would try to find out more about Carver.  He needed to understand.  Then, perhaps, he could let this madness, and the man who had inflicted it upon him, go.

     Sighing, Cullen threw off the stifling blanket and draped his arm over his eyes.  Thankfully, the Maker was merciful; he drifted off soon enough, and suffered no dreams that lingered.

#

     The next afternoon Cullen logged himself out of the Gallows on reconnaissance, which earned him a surprised look from the duty master.  "Probably nothing," Cullen said to the woman, meaning it so that he would not feel guilt for what he was doing.  "I just want a closer look at someone before I waste the Hunters' time."

     "Oh, of course, ser," she said, nodding briskly.  "Good hunting, and may the Maker watch over you."

     It was as close to a lie as Cullen had been willing to go, given that in truth he meant to spend the day spying upon his former lover.  He justified it to himself by the fact that Carver was an admitted harborer of apostates, albeit dead ones... and by the fact that he meant to make a larger-than-usual tithe to the Chantry at the end of the month to make up for it.  That done, however, he headed forth -- armorless and cloaked, the better to conceal himself from his quarry.

     In recruit training Cullen had learned the art of the hunter; it was required of all, whether they meant to pursue that particular vocation within the Order or not.  He'd had no taste for it beyond that, preferring to face his demons and maleficarum head-on, and so was somewhat out of practice with blending in to his surroundings, slouching to disguise his stature, and the like.  Still, he had clearly done a passable-enough job of it, for as evening approached and the Rose came to life, Carver emerged from the building in the company of a young woman, and neither so much as glanced in Cullen's direction.

     The woman's presence in itself would not have troubled Cullen.  Carver wore leathers and a massive two-hander strapped at his back; the woman wore a lady's stave almost as long and a waist-skirt of chain.  Clearly this was no romantic outing.  But Cullen inhaled, floored with realization, as the pair turned to head down the steps to Lowtown.  The young woman looked nothing like him -- brown eyes to his blue, a triangular face to Carver's square -- but it was there in their pacing: a shared forcefulness that was readily contained in the woman's case, and barely in check with Carver.  And it was there when Carver glanced at her, said something, and they both laughed the same self-deprecating, slightly cynical laugh.  The woman was his sister.

     A sister Carver had not mentioned, born of a family line which carried magic.  A sister whose stave -- little more than a gnarled stick -- did not seem at all enough of a weapon in Kirkwall, even for a lady.

     As the chill settled in his belly, and the sweat dampened his palms, Cullen reminded himself that he had been wrong before.  After Kinloch it had been easy to see danger everywhere, though he'd tried to break that habit of paranoia since.  Perhaps the woman simply trusted her larger, better-armed brother to look after her.

     Or perhaps a spindly-looking stick was all the weapon a mage needed.

     They descended the steps, and Cullen moved to follow.

     In Lowtown he loitered near a salesman's cart, pretending interest in dusty-looking Fereldan trinkets and pot-metal weapons while the pair went into the Hanged Man and emerged with a woman whose description matched reports Cullen had seen from the Templar Hunters:  Isabela, a raider captain said to be in search of a book which might be some sort of forbidden grimoire.  After that it became clear that they were headed for the foundry district, and Cullen was glad he had worn his sword, although he'd had to leave the shield at the Gallows; too distinctive.  He had to be more careful about his shadowing as they went, too, for the raider-woman had a habit of looking back over her shoulder, and more than once he was certain she had marked him.  But they kept going, and there was no outcry, so he continued to follow.

     The raider was fortunately distracted from thenceforth, after helping them break the lock of a smelting warehouse on the southern side of town.  When Cullen waited an appropriate amount of time and followed them in, there was a frustrating instant in which he thought he'd lost them.  The warehouse was empty but for great vats of glowing hot metal.  He thought the scent of sulfur was from the smelting at first, as he searched for some sign of his quarry's direction.  And then he stiffened, reaching for his sword, at the sight of a demon's corpse in a corner.

     Only a sloth-wraith, thank the Maker, and that nearly cloven in two; as Cullen watched, the thing expired with a low groan and dissolved into aether.  But no mage summoned a single demon -- and if this one had died on Carver's blade, then it was not Carver's sister who had brought the thing from the Fade.  Unless she had been taken by a demon herself -- but no.  If that had been the case, either she would be here too, dying from her brother's mercy, or -- and Cullen's belly tightened at this thought -- Carver would be the one lying split and crumpled in the shadows.

     Dropping his blade back into its sheath, Cullen resumed his search for signs of the trio's passage.  What were they after, then?  Why had they come to this place, where clearly they faced a blood mage's evil work, if not the master himself?

     And how much danger was Carver truly in?

     Quickening his pace and stifling his own fear, Cullen finally spied a clue as to where they'd gone in a room bristling with crude floor-traps which had fortunately been disabled.  Someone had set barrels and detritus on top of a hidden cellar door, and Carver and his companions had apparently climbed through it, leaving the door open.  After listening to be sure they weren't near, Cullen descended the ladder too, and headed in the only direction available:  down a long and redolent corridor, deeper into the dark.

     As he went he grew increasingly worried, for there were more dead demons along the way.  In clusters, which spoke of a blood mage casting summonings in waves:  five dead wraiths and a smoking rage-demon husk here, a handful of reanimated skeletons there.  And a desire demon.  Cullen stiffened at this, trembling for an instant with a paroxysm of memory, and then grimly marched on. 

     If this blood mage could summon such power already, that meant a great deal of blood had already been spilled -- far more than any mage could wring from his own veins.  Such a monster would not hesitate to take more from Carver and his friends.

     Sure enough, up ahead:  shouts and the sizzle of a lightning spell.  And among the cries, a very clear, _"Watch out!"_

     Carver.

     Sprinting now, Cullen reached a juncture in the sewer passageways which had been, astoundingly, converted into living space:  dressers, a bed, a rather cozy-looking study, if one ignored the rough walls and sewer stench.  He ignored it and ran on, stupidly tripping right over a trap-trigger which had fortunately already been sprung -- otherwise it might have killed him with poison darts from a false wall -- and finally reached the top of a staircase.  There at last he beheld:

     Another juncture, and it was full of monsters.  Two desire demons danced on the periphery of the chaos, spinning weakening spells into the air while their more violent siblings of sloth and wrath and undeath tried to kill the three figures fighting at the center of the room:  Carver and his companions. 

     _Carver_.

     Carver _surrounded by demons_ , his handsome face set and fierce as his two-handed blade flashed and unreal blood splattered the cheap leather clothing he wore in lieu of armor.  Carver in a defensive formation with two other fighters as wave after wave of demons came at them -- and as, beyond them, a man stood watching from within the safety of a magical barrier.  The hollow, red-eyed evil in his gaze struck Cullen like a fist.  _Blood mage_.  This man's lips moved and fingers twitched, and around him terrible, heavy magic gathered like a storm; he was in the midst of a Greater Summoning, to bring forth a pride demon or worse.  And Carver and the others were already on the verge of being overwhelmed.

     _No!_

     Furious, Cullen drew his sword and leapt into the fray, shouting at the top of his lungs to startle their foes.  He heard the raider exclaim -- "What in flames?" -- and Carver gasp -- _"C-Cullen?"_   Then he shouldered aside a wraith and was already throwing the Holy Smite before he reached the blood mage's immediate vicinity.  It smashed against the mage's barrier and shattered it, and so startled was the man by the sudden appearance of a Templar that he only had time to inhale before Cullen ran him through.

     It was a mistake.  Cullen realized this as the mage lifted his head and grinned, eyes empty of anything but the thinnest veneer of humanity:  he had just given the demon within the man much, much more blood to work with.  Frantically he tried to withdraw his sword to finish the job, but in that moment a wraith grabbed him from behind, clawing furiously at his unarmored chest.  As Cullen fought to dislodge it, he caught glimpses of the blood mage pressing both hands to the wound in his belly, then lifting then in offering.  He felt the magic of the Greater Summoning flex, beginning to coalesce into something powerful enough to challenge a whole army of Templars --

     Suddenly Carver was beside him, hauling the wraith away.  He felt a crackle of ice and a chill nearby as the creature shrieked and froze solid:  Carver's sister. 

     Then Cullen's sword was in his hand, and the blood mage had so-obligingly lifted his head, eyes shut as the summoning peaked... which made it remarkably easy for Cullen's sword to slice through the man's neck.

     The summoning collapsed.  The room rocked, dust and spiders falling from the ceiling.  They all heard a distant, hollow roar of frustration from whatever had almost come through the Veil.  Still, they'd done it:  the demons around them vanished, including the corpses of those already fallen.  The oppressive weight of the spell vanished, and silence fell.

     "Maker's _Cock_ ," Carver breathed, sagging to one knee at the periphery of Cullen's vision.  He had propped himself up with his greatsword, but it was obvious that was the only thing keeping him upright.  Behind him, Cullen heard similar murmurs of relief and exhaustion, but he kept his sword out and his gaze on the blood mage's body.  Demons were tenacious.  Sometimes they would take a mage's corpse if they could not cling to a live one.

     "That wasn't... at all what... I was expecting," complained the younger woman, sounding as winded as her brother -- as Cullen had expected.  She was clearly well-trained for an apostate and had husbanded her lyrium reserves well, but the nature of the battle would have left her exhausted regardless.  "I thought we would... just find some dotty old Circle mage... wandering about lost down here.  Instead..."

     Instead.  Resting the tip of his blade on the ground, Cullen lifted his eyes to a pair of worktables near the back of the chamber, beyond the blood mage's body.  It was almost impossible to tell that they had been human, let alone women, but beneath the gore Cullen could see the hem of one of the finer Circle-issue robes.  The lost Mharen.  And the other --

     "Carver," he said, keeping his tone neutral.  "Is that Ninette du Carrac?"

     There was a moment's silence, and then Carver stumbled to his feet and a few steps past Cullen.  Cullen maintained his guard over the blood mage's corpse, which was easier, horribly, than looking at Carver.  "Fucking Void, I think it is.  Ah, _balls_. Jethann's going to be heartbroken."

     As would Emeric.  Cullen sighed.  It was never wise for a Templar to grow too soft-hearted over a mage. 

     Or a mage's brother, apparently.  As Cullen kept his silence, he saw Carver glance at him and shift uncomfortably.

     "A blood mage living in the sewers," said the other woman -- the raider.  She "tsk"ed.  "Not the way I wanted to go out.  My thanks, large handsome stranger."

     "Hmm, yes."  That was Carver's sister again, and after a moment he heard her rise and come at his back.  This made all the hairs along the back of his neck prickle, but the blood mage's corpse was the greater of the two threats and so he did not move.  She moved around him, however, stepping between him and the dead man, which forced him to look up and meet her gaze. 

     She _knew_ , he saw at once.  Somehow, perhaps because of the Smite he'd thrown, she'd guessed what he was, and what he was considering now.  But there was neither fear nor hesitation in her expression as she lifted a hand, which glowed faintly with Creation magic, and cast a significant glance at Cullen's chest, where the wraith had mauled him.  "Will you let me heal you, Ser Templar?  Since you took this wound saving our lives."

     "Bethy," said Carver, horrified.

     "What's done is done, Carver."  When Cullen did not answer -- for he had gone still but for the narrowing of his eyes, and his mind had gone blank but for the whisper of _cut her down before she becomes one of them_ \-- she nodded and moved her hand toward his chest.  She did this slowly, carefully, giving him plenty of time to see and object.  And when he still did not react, she nodded a little to herself, and began the healing.

     It did not take long.  The young woman's magic was deft and remarkably skillful, he realized as his tension gave way to surprise.  And when she finished and exhaled, then turned a frank gaze upon him as if to say _Well?_ he found his thoughts stilling again, this time with indecision.

     But -- 

     Reluctantly he let his gaze drift over to Carver, who stood watching the woman with wide, frightened eyes.  Abruptly Carver jerked a little and met Cullen's gaze, and the fear in his face turned to conflicted anguish.  He was as open as any library tome, torn between his desire to protect his sister... and his unwillingness to fight Cullen.

     Could Cullen fight Carver, if he had to?  _Would_ he, if it came to that?

     The silence stretched on, painfully taut.

     Until finally Cullen sheathed his sword, turned his back on all of them, and walked out.

#

     In his quarters that night Cullen prayed for hours, then lay fitfully awake for hours more, feeling none of the clarity he had hoped for. 

     _Why did I let her go?  Blessed Maker, what have I done?_

     He _knew_ the danger maleficarum posed.  He _knew_ that apostates turned to demons more often than mages in a Circle; without the support of their own kind and the Templars, temptation was all too difficult for them to resist.  Carver's sister, however brave or good-hearted she might be, was a deadly danger to herself and everyone around her.  It was his duty to bring her in for the good of the world.

     And yet he had not done so.  Which meant -- Maker, what did it mean?  Was he even still a Templar, now that he'd abandoned his vows?

     He could not say, and sleep did not come.  In the morning as he dragged himself from bed and went about his toilette, he felt ill, old, empty.  It was such an obvious malaise that when he reported in after muster, Meredith -- with surprising kindness -- asked if he shouldn't take the day off.  He politely demurred; he'd shirked his duties enough, lately.

     But as he stood at his customary place in the Gallows courtyard, thinking of nothing and feeling nothing and likely doing a poor job of guarding anything, he blinked as someone's shadow crossed the flagstones at his feet.  When he looked up, Carver stood before him. 

     "Knight Captain," Carver said, in a wary tone.

     Cullen blinked, frowning sluggishly.  "Carver."

     Carver shifted from foot to foot, visibly uncomfortable in the harsh light of the courtyard and so far from the Rose's soft lanterns.  He wore the same leathers as the day before, though they'd been cleaned of blood; perhaps his sister had wasted magic to dry the laundry so quickly.  Carver opened his mouth, then closed it, then took a deep breath and opened it again.  "You said, ah, you didn't care if I came to see you here."

     The words seemed a million years old.  "Yes."

     Carver nodded once, shifted to the other foot, nodded again.  Then he lifted his chin, just a little belligerently.  "Came here so you could arrest me, if you were gonna."

     "Arrest -- "  Cullen frowned in confusion, then shook his head.  "I would have to arrest myself, first."  Now they had both aided and abetted an apostate.

     Carver's mouth twitched.  "Oh.  Yeah.  Well."  He hesitated, then stepped closer and held out a hand as if to shake.  Cullen took it reflexively, and frowned as Carver's fingers pressed something small into his palm.  "Somewhere we can talk, if... if you still want.  Uh, after sunset; gotta head back to the Rose, for now."  He smoothed a hand over his hair unnecessarily, and looked around as if fearful of observers.  There would be some, of course, just as there would no doubt be talk later that the Knight Captain's whore had come openly to see him.  But Cullen could not think enough to care. 

     And when Cullen did not answer, Carver hunched a little.  "Right, well.  Anyway... thank you.  For, uh, you know."  He shrugged and took a deep breath.  "She's all I've got left.  I have to do a better job taking care of her than I did Garrett.  So... thank you."

     With that, he headed off, looking at no one, his shoulders bowed and pace so rapid that Cullen could not have called after him even if he'd been able to think of anything to say.

     Later, when Cullen's shift ended, he headed up the steps and into the Great Hall, thinking wearily only of food and a bath and rest.  One of the senior knights fell in beside him as he walked, and nudged him with an elbow in a friendly if overly familiar way.  "You look half dead, Knight Captain.  That blood mage take it out of you?"

     "No."  The head of the mage -- Quentin, Meredith had confirmed, an escapee from the Starkhaven Circle -- currently sat atop one of the Gallows gate-spikes.  Meredith was well pleased with Cullen, both for the object lesson in the evils of blood magic, and for the reminder of a Templar's power.  And meanwhile, Emeric and the mages mourned poor dead Mharen.  Cullen sighed.  "Yes.  Forgive me, but I am tired."

     The senior knight -- Mettin, he thought -- chuckled.  "My apologies.  And you cannot have been pleased to see your pet leave his pretty cage, I imagine, on top of everything else."  He clapped Cullen on the shoulder companionably, which made Cullen frown in confusion.  "Can't blame the lad for hoping, though, can we?  The rising star of the Order's an even finer catch than before.  Hope you didn't break his heart too badly when you sent him packing."

     "What?"  Perhaps Cullen was even more weary than he'd thought.

     "That black-haired lad, the one from the Rose."  Mettin shrugged.  "I hear he's a special attraction of sorts -- the get of some noble family fallen on hard times.  They pretend he's not for sale, but I hear you had a free sample."  Mettin eyed him sidelong, and belatedly Cullen blushed, understanding.  At this, Mettin laughed.  "Don't blame you, Captain; he's lovely, if mouthy -- but mouths have their uses."

     "Ah... yes."  Maker, this was not a conversation he wanted to have with a man he barely knew.  "Well, ah, he is... yes.  If you will excuse me, Ser Mettin -- "

     Mettin nodded, but nudged him with the elbow again.  "If you'd rather someone less intrusive," he said with a wry smile, "there are a few lads on the apprentice floors you might want to meet.  They've proven themselves especially, hmm, _accepting_ of the Maker's order for magekind."  He shrugged, then waved jauntily and veered off down another corridor.  As Cullen stared after him, Mettin called over his shoulder, "I can make the arrangments, if you like.  If not, then rest well, Knight Captain ser!"

     Cullen stopped and frowned, wondering if there was some part of the conversation he'd missed -- and then, with horrifying clarity, understanding came.

     It was not the first or worst abuse he'd heard of since coming to the Gallows of Kirkwall.  Nor was this the sort of thing he could stop -- not if the mages in question were unwilling to bring suit against the Templars involved, and Cullen suspected these "lads" were far too cowed to attempt it.  Orsino was no help, refusing to bring any but the most obvious cases to Meredith for fear of squandering what little influence he had with her.  And Meredith had made it clear that so long as no children were born, permanent injuries inflicted, or diseases spread, any means of bringing mages to the Maker were acceptable.

     But for Mettin to be so _forthright_ about it...

_Came here so you could arrest me,_ Carver had said.  _If you were gonna._

     And if Cullen had done so, he could never have guaranteed Carver's safety.  Much less that of his pretty, pretty sister.

     In the midst of the corridor, with recruits and junior knights bustling around him, Cullen lowered his head in quiet sorrow.  What a fool he was, berating himself over one spared apostate.  In truth, his vows had been broken since the day he'd come through the Gallows gates.

     So Cullen opened his gauntleted palm and unrolled the small scroll of parchment which had been clutched there since Carver gave it to him.  An address.  Hightown, but not the Rose.

     Tightening his fist around the parchment, Cullen pivoted on one foot and headed for the Gallows exit.


	4. Chapter 4

     "You sure it's smart, lad, turning it up for a Templar?"

     The voice brought Carver up short as he walked into the Rose's common room.  _Sodding Void._   But he turned, resisting the urge to tighten his fists as he did so, to face Meeran, who lounged against the wall just to one side of the door.

     "No, it's not," Carver replied, keeping his voice low because _fuck_.  "No smarter than turning it up for a merc captain, anyway.  And I kicked him to the curb already, if you must know, for the _same bloody reason_."

     "Now, now, no need to get all riled," Meeran said, raising his hands in a placatory way.  He paused for a moment, his expression changing to something that silenced the retort on Carver's tongue, and then smiled lopsidedly, his gaze serious and sad.  "Just offering some friendly advice, was all.  Not that you need it, apparently.  Dumped him already, have you?  I suppose I should feel honored that you strung me along for months."

     "Feel whatever you bloody well please."  Lusine was looking at them; _fuck_.  Carver couldn't let her see him sniping at someone in the common room -- let alone Meeran, who was a regular and friendly with the Coterie.  Also, she'd have a cat if she knew this was another case of him sleeping with the clientele, even if it had happened before he'd ever gotten the job.  So, taking a deep breath to calm himself and making himself straighten from the half-aggressive stance he'd taken without quite thinking, Carver said,  "At least your advice is free; nothing else you ever offered me was."

     Meeran shook his head, sighing, and pushed away from the wall.  "I'm offering the same thing I offered when I took you on, that day in the Gallows when you were fresh off the boat:  protection for you and yours.  A chance to be strong.  Respectability."  He glanced around at the Rose's gaudy decor, and Carver flushed despite himself.  "Earn some money on your feet, not your knees."

     "Right."  Carver folded his arms and stopped trying to look polite, letting his face fall into a sneer.  "On my feet, except when _you_ want me on my knees."

     "As I recall, you _like_ being on your knees."  With palpable deliberation Meeran stepped closer, then closer still, until Carver had to unfold his arms or step back to avoid touching him.  Which made it easy for Meeran to lean in close and murmur in his ear:  "And bent over tables, and on your belly in the dirt, and up against the wall in a ship-cabin -- "

     Furious, Carver looked away and snarled, "You come here for something particular, Meer, or just to make my day worse?"

     "What does anybody come to the Rose for?  Something particular."  And Meeran's hand was on his arm now, sliding down -- going for the arse, Carver wagered, or maybe he'd be bold enough to try a crotch-grab.   "How much for a bit of reminiscing, lad?  For old times' sake?"

     "Nothing.  'Cause _I don't do that with clients_.  And even if I did, I'll sodding _shank_ you before I do _you_ again."  Shaking him off, Carver stepped away as Meeran's face turned that all-over blotchy purple he got when he was really furious.  But before he could curse Carver to the four winds, Carver turned his back on the man and headed to the bar.  Thankfully, Meeran did not follow.

     He was still shaking, staring into a drink that he didn't want, when Lusine leaned against the bar-top in front of him.  Blinking, Carver looked up; Quintus had moved off to clean the other end of the bar.  _Oh, Void, now I'm getting fired_.

     "Word of advice, lad," Lusine said softly, and Carver blinked.  "You want to let a man like that down a little more gently.  For your own sake."

     _Sod off_ , he thought, and clenched his teeth an instant before the words might have come out.  The Rose's common room was quiet for now; it was late afternoon, night time for the night shift, and most of the clientele was already upstairs.  There was no one to hear if he did tell Lusine off, and she never seemed to mind much when the other house performers snapped at her, so long as they did their jobs.  But he held his tongue because it wasn't fair of him to take his temper out on her -- and because, in spite of everything, he'd heard a note of genuine kindness in her voice.

     Also, she was right.

     "Already did," he said, heavily.  "Thanks anyway, though."

#

     He was exhausted, though he'd only worked a few hours, by the time he got to the hidden door in Darktown.  That was partly because he was still half worn-out from the previous day's battle.  But he was pretty sure the real reason he was so tired was because all this emotional shit took a harder toll than any demon.

     His mother's key still worked on all of the manor's doors.  The slavers hadn't bothered to change the locks, rightly convinced that Gamlen would've never had the balls to try anything.  Now that the slavers were gone, Carver had kept using the Darktown passage, mostly because he didn't want anyone in Hightown seeing him fiddling with the front door and thinking that the stately Amell residence was being broken into by some worthless Fereldan refugee.  Anyway, if he got arrested, he'd never hear the end of it from Aveline.

     Upstairs, the house was still but for motes of dust drifting in the slanting light from the big picture-window.  He'd come into the manor a few times since he and Bethany had killed the slavers -- cleaning up the bodies and blood for the day when Mother could return to her childhood home -- and it never felt any homier.  Perhaps that was just the dust cloths draped over everything, which gave the whole place a funereal feel... but Carver suspected it was also because the place was so damned _fancy_ , even dusty and disused as it was.  And _he_ was not fancy, so he fit within its walls like a high dragon at high tea.

     He'd lit the house's lanterns and sat down in one of the study's plush chairs, staring at the cold fireplace and wondering if Cullen hadn't had enough of him after all, and whether it was really better to be a whore for anyone than a whore for just one man, and whether he hadn't better just book passage back to Ferelden and wash his hands of this whole blighted city... when he heard the house's front door open.  A moment later he heard, "Carver?"

     Thank the Maker.  "Here," he called, heading into the house's greeting hall, where he found Cullen looking around in bewilderment.

     "Carver," he said.  And then -- shit -- his face went all soft like it had before, when they'd just been two blokes who couldn't keep their hands off each other, and not an apostate-harborer and the Templar Knight Captain.  The look lasted only a moment, however, before Cullen too remembered the chasm that now lay between them, and sobered.

     It hurt, strangely, seeing that look fade.  But Carver had killed it, hadn't he?  It was his own damned fault.  All of this was his fault.  He'd let things get out of hand, and now Bethany was at risk.

     He couldn't make all of it _right_.  All he could try to do was make some of it _better_.

     "Did you tell anyone?"  It wasn't the question he'd meant to ask first.  Fuck, he was nervous, and it was making him stupid.  He _knew_ how to do this, for the Maker's sake; he was all ham-hands at it, but he knew what Cullen wanted to hear.  Cullen took a deep breath, however, understanding at once.

     "No," Cullen said.  "As I said in the courtyard, to accuse you -- or your sister -- would incriminate me, since I let you go when I had the chance to make an arrest.  And..."  He paused, then looked away.  "The Gallows... is not a safe place for mages, I am ashamed to say.  Not at present, and perhaps -- "  His expression tightened.  "No."

     "Right," Carver said, a bit mystified.  "Er... right.  Well."  He hesitated, then took a deep breath.  "Well, even if you can't take me or her in _now_ , fact is you let her go _then_ for me, and I'm grateful."

     Cullen frowned as if this troubled him, but he nodded slowly.  "It is weak of me.  But... yes."

     He looked so forlorn standing there that Carver took a few steps toward him before realizing he probably shouldn't.  He had to keep his wits about him if he was going to pull this off, and not just _react_ to the man.  "It's not weak," he said instead, so firmly that Cullen blinked.  "I was named for a Templar.  For -- for the man who helped my father escape from the Circle right here in Kirkwall.  He said the Maker wasn't served by caging the best of us, so he _set a mage free_."

     Cullen was staring at him, shaking his head -- in wonder?  Maybe in disapproval.  "A Templar who did such a thing today would be hanged," he said, grimly.  "At least."

     "Yeah, it probably wasn't all that good for his career back then, either.  But that's what the Gallows used to be like.  That's what _Templars_ used to be like, back when they tried to be partners to mages and not just jailors.  Wasn't weak then, isn't weak now."

     Cullen shook his head again, expression hardening.  "We cannot be friends to mages, Carver.  I have seen what happens when they become abominations.  I have lived through carnage the likes of which you've never even imagined."

     The look in his eyes... Carver flinched.  But --  "That can happen to any mage, in the Circle or not."

     "But in the Circle, they can be stopped before they do damage -- "  But even as he said it, Cullen shuddered; he had gone pale.  "No.  That is a lie.  Kinloch was everything we could have wished, until -- "  He abruptly fell silent, lowering his gaze.  Was he _trembling_?  Alarmed, Carver stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder; Maker, he was.  But after a moment, Cullen drew a sharp breath, getting a hold of himself, and looked around at Carver with a rueful smile.  "It would seem I am experiencing a crisis of faith."

     Set off by letting Bethany go.  Uneasily, Carver said, "Sorry."

     "No need for apology, or pity.  You are its catalyst, I will admit... but not its true cause."  He lifted a hand to cover Carver's for a moment, and it was nice, just that little gesture.  It felt good and Carver wanted to leave his hand there and maybe use it to pull him closer and maybe --

     _No_.  What was _wrong_ with him?  He pulled his hand away, too roughly and obviously, and Cullen's face sagged into its usual mournful lines again.  _Shit, I shouldn't have --  I don't think I can do this at all --_

     "Perhaps you should tell me why you asked me to come here," Cullen said, after a moment.

     Carver sighed, folding his arms over his chest to stop himself from fidgeting.  "I just... wanted you to understand, is all." 

     "Understand?"

     "Why -- everything.  I mean -- "  He gestured, and felt weak, so folded his arms again.  "You looked at me, down there in that -- charnel house -- like I'd shanked you or something, hiding Bethany from you.  I mean, I barely know you, but... that's what it looked like.  And..."  He shrugged, uneasily.  "It bothered me.  You let my sister go.  You deserve an explanation."

     Cullen shook his head.  "You owe me nothing, Carver."

     "I _do_."  That was the Maker's own truth.  Carver had felt the moral weight of it, honesty owed for kindness, ever since.  He looked around, at this manor that was supposedly his legacy, and felt tired all over again.  "I didn't want to come here.  Kirkwall, I mean.  We just -- there was nowhere else -- "  He sighed and tried again.  "We had nothing but the clothes on our backs when we fled Lothering, do you understand?  I'd fled the army without leave, and without pay.  We'd just lost my father and then we lost Brother and... and it was my decision.  Mother kept going on about her rich family here, and this manor, and all... but I could've talked Mother out of it, if I'd tried."  Maker, this wasn't what he'd meant to say at all.  Frustrated, he began to pace, rubbing at his arms, unable to keep still.  "But I saw the size of that darkspawn horde at Ostagar; I figured Fereldan was finished.  And even without that, I know -- I've always known -- there's only two ways to keep an apostate safe, if you don't want her to end up in some dank hole being ravaged by lyrium-crazed Templars -- "  _Oh, fuck._   He stopped, horrified at himself, and stared at Cullen.  "Shit, I didn't mean -- "

     "No," said Cullen, and it was a measure of how much his faith must have been cracked that he said this heavily, emotionlessly, without protest.  "You are not wrong.  Please; go on."

     Oh.  Well, then.  Carver licked his lips.  "Well...  the only way to be safe from Templars -- in most places -- is to be _nobody_ , or to be _somebody_ , you get me?  In Lothering Brother made sure the Templars in town saw him as just some randy farmboy more interested in skirts than grimoires.  I did the same, so they'd see us the same, two peas in a pod, even though we were really as different as night and day.  Bethany was just some pretty farmgirl whose skirts _they_ wanted to get under, but she spent so much time in the Chantry praying and talking with the lay sisters -- chatting half of them up, I later came to realize, but that's neither here nor there -- that the Templars felt guilty just thinking about her.  And Father was the best of all of us at it.  He never used magic, not even when we knew no one else was around, if he could do a thing with his hands.  He kept saying magic would serve that which was best in him, not that which was most base.  I thought that was something the Chant said, and I kept looking for it in the books when the sisters let me, but I never found it.  It's something he just made up.  And we all lived by it."

     He was babbling.  But when he looked up at Cullen, he found that Cullen had folded his arms and leaned against the room's mantle, watching Carver in apparent fascination. 

So he swallowed, and kept going. 

     "That's what we really lost with Lothering, you see?  It was a place we could be normal, just like everybody else.  But to survive in Ferelden during a Blight, we'd have to be _abnormal_.  We had to fight our way through the 'spawn-infested Wilds to get to Gwaren -- how many could've done that and managed it, even if we did lose two along the way?  Nobody ordinary."

     Cullen nodded.  "You should be proud."

     "Well, I'm _not_."  Carver laughed, once, up at the artfully-frescoed ceiling of the Amell manor.  "Because it cost my brother's _life_ and he was a wanker but I _loved_ him, only I never bothered to _tell_ him that so fat lot of good it did him!  And in exchange for him we come here and we get _this_ \-- "  He gestured viciously at the walls.  "Only it's not really ours anymore because our wastrel uncle lost it to a batch of slavers over cards.  Bethany and I had to come kill them and find the will just to have any chance at getting the place, but without money it's sodding hopeless."

     "That is why," Cullen said suddenly, his eyes widening.  "The Rose."

     It made as much sense as anything else in this conversation.  Carver laughed again, though he didn't feel it inside.  Inside, he was shaking, and he didn't know why.  "Yeah.  That's why I work the Rose, and that's why my sister's working for smugglers, and that's why we both take on any odd jobs between us that might earn us a little coin -- like going down in the sodding sewers to find some lost mage, and ending up facing the worst blood mage I've ever seen."  He shook his head, then looked up at Cullen.  "And getting rescued, by the kindest Templar I've ever met."

     Cullen blinked, clearly taken aback.  "I could not have stood by and watched, when I could help."

     "Plenty of Templars would've, Cull.  An apostate and a couple of street rats?  Let the blood mage spend himself on them, then there's that much less for you to take down."

     "So that is what it has come to."  Cullen sighed and rubbed his temple.  "This is what the people truly think of us.  Andraste save us; we have gone so wrong."

     And then Carver felt guilty.  "Not all of you," he said, shrugging again.  His shoulders were a tight band across his neck and back.  "Just... most of you, yeah."

     Cullen nodded bleakly.  "So you mean to get this house back."

     "Yeah.  We're titled nobility, Cull, through my mother -- but it doesn't mean shit without coin."  He sighed.  "If we can earn enough to sink some investments, bribe the right people, call in old debts and get the family fortune started again, we can be _somebody_ and Bethany will be safe, even here in Templar Central.  Plenty of nobles in the Marches are secret mages.  But without that, we're in trouble.  There's too bloody _many_ nobodys here, all the other fucking refugees.  We're some of the few with roofs over our heads and decent clothes, so we stick out like sore _thumbs_.  Bethany's safe with her smugglers, for now.  It's dangerous work, but as long as their leader's happy with her -- but what if that goes wrong?  I mean, I hooked up with some mercs and thought it was fine, a little tit for tat, I actually liked Meeran back then and the sex wasn't so bad... but then he decided that he sodding _loved_ me and when I didn't love him back he acted like I'd lied to him and don't you see?"

     He turned to Cullen, whose wonder had given way to a frown, and who'd pushed away from the mantle, his posture taut as if he wanted -- something.  Carver didn't know what, and it didn't matter.  He held out his hands, trying to make Cullen _understand_ , because he hadn't been able to talk about this to anyone but Bethany and it was burning him up inside.  "I don't know how to keep her _safe_.  I thought I could make enough money at the Rose and I can, but it's going to take years and in the meantime I don't know what else to _do_ , I'm not my _brother_ , the Guard don't want me and I couldn't hire on to that Deep Roads thing without _money_ , how the fuck am I supposed to _get_ money if I don't _have_ money?" 

     His throat hurt.  He was breathing too hard.  And Cullen had taken a step closer and it hurt like an unhealed wound not to go to him, but... no.  _Shouldn't_ he go to him?  Wasn't that the plan?  Maker, he didn't even know his own mind anymore.  Frustrated, he pushed his hands into his hair and paced away.

     "You are doing what must be done, Carver," Cullen said behind him.  "No one can fault you; in the face of adversity, you have been brave.  Strong."

     " _Strong?_ "  Carver made a sound of derision.  "I'm not the strong one.  That was Garrett.  That's Bethany, and my mother."  Then he stopped and fell silent, and rubbed at his own arms because he couldn't think what else to do with them, but the words were right there and all of a sudden he didn't know how to keep them in. "Sometimes I think _I'm_ the one who should have died in the Wilds.  Brother could've found a way to keep the family together, I'm sure of it, and Bethany would be happy and safe somewhere, and Mother would be _here_.  All of this, all of it has gone cockarse because of _me_.  That's why you don't want to be with me, Cull.  Nothing I do goes right.  Everything I care about sodding _dies_."

     He had to stop.  His throat had closed; he was about to cry like some scared child.  Like something _weak_.  When Cullen turned him 'round and embraced him, all metal-hard and warm, Carver didn't know what to do.  Part of him wanted to fight, part of him to grab back, and part of him wanted to just keep standing there babbling and grinding at his arms like they might come off.  Cullen made the choice, pulling him close until Carver's face was pressed into sun-gold hair that smelled like the best sex he'd ever had and all the safety he'd never had.  "Shh," Cullen said.  Carver fisted his hands at his sides, feeling the nails bite into his palms and not caring that it hurt.  _Not gonna cry.  Not in front of him._   He'd fought at bloody Ostagar, he hadn't even cried when Garrett died, so he wasn't going to --   "Hush now, my warrior.  I'll help you."

     He didn't _want_ help.  He didn't want _some Templar's_ help.  And he almost pulled away then, almost fought to get free even though Cullen wasn't holding him all that tight, but Cullen said, "You need face nothing alone, Carver, unless you choose -- " and that fucking _broke_ him.  All at once he was clinging to Cullen, holding him tight enough to make the straps of his armor creak, shaking and holding him and _sobbing_ , and he couldn't stop.  For like, _hours_.  Or at least that was what it felt like.

     But when he was finally done, it was only a little darker in the house; the last light of sunset had finally faded from the sky.  Only a few minutes had probably passed.  Still, it felt as if an age of the world had come and gone by the time he finally lifted his head from Cullen's shoulder.

     Cullen let him go easily, though he kept a grip on Carver's shoulders.  There were wet streaks and -- was that snot? -- on the pauldron of Cullen's armor, and Carver hung his head in shame.

     "This is why you fear me," Cullen said, wondering.

     "Wh-what?"

     Cullen sighed, then shifted one hand to his cheek, coaxing him to look up.  When Carver did, that bloody look was in Cullen's face again, though this time leavened by concern.

     "I shall never hurt you," he said.

     "Y'can't say that."  Empty, he was empty inside.  "You're a bloody Templar, and I'm a mageborn whore."  Might as well own up to it at last.  More people wanted him for his arse than his sword, anyway.  It was the only thing he seemed to be really good at.

     Cullen's face tightened, and he lifted his other hand to hold Carver's head.  His voice shook with emotion as he said, "I _will not hurt you_.  There must be some way, some middle path between my oath and the realities of the world; I shall _find_ it.  And you are no whore to me.  I want nothing of you that is not freely given -- "  But abruptly his resolve seemed to falter.  He let Carver go, stepping back with obvious reluctance.  "But... it is of course, ah, your right to reject my courtship overtures.  Forgive me, I forgot for a moment that..."

     Too many sodding words.  Carver groaned, reached up to grab _Cullen's_ head, and pulled him into a kiss mid-dither.  Then when that was done and he let Cullen's mouth go and Cullen stood blinking like an owl, he said, "I want you."

     Cullen inhaled, his eyes going wide -- then wary. 

     "You were right about me, Carver," he said, "that first night.  I... I want more than mere pleasure."

     It felt like years ago.  It had been three days.  Carver tried to smile.  "Weight in your arms," he said.  "Somebody to say good morning to.  Was that it?"

     A muscle flexed in Cullen's jaw, hard enough that Carver felt the jump of it against his hands.  So tense.  "To begin with."

     Oh, yes, that much Carver could tell already.  Cullen wouldn't be content with just the occasional tumble.  He'd want much more.  And there was danger here, too, so much of it; so many things that frightened him in Cullen's eyes.

     But --

     But --

     Fuck, was it so wrong of him to want more too?

     Carver licked his lips, and nodded.  And then because maybe Cullen needed the words too, Carver said, "Yeah," and hoped they didn't need more words than that.

     Cullen swallowed audibly.  Then he shut his eyes and leaned his forehead against Carver's, and his hands trembled when they came to rest on Carver's waist.  Like they wanted to roam elsewhere.  "P-perhaps there is somewhere we could... ah, r-retire."

     It was the first time Carver had felt like laughing all evening.  He didn't because he could feel what those carefully-oblique, too-proper words had cost Cullen.  So instead Carver stepped back, and took Cullen's hand, and pulled him along.  Up the steps, across the landing, and into the quiet little room with the four-poster bed that he'd never allowed himself to think of as _his_ room, even if it was the one he might have wanted.  If this had really been his house.

     Cullen clearly did not care that Carver was a fake nobleman squatting in a stolen manor.  He never took his eyes from Carver as they worked on his armor, Cullen perfunctorily, Carver taking care with each piece.  Then the chain, then the rest -- and when Cullen was naked, he stood watching, vigilant, while Carver tugged off his tunic and shirt and let the workman's pants fall and stepped out of the old boots.

     Then he took Cullen's hand, and there was the old bed behind them, covered in a drape but still relatively dust-free because of the canopy.  Then the bed was beneath him, remarkably firm, probably had to be tough to handle generations of _his_ family fucking, and Cullen was on top of him, and it was nothing like their previous couplings.  This was slower and quieter, and somehow sweeter.  Cullen's mouth was on his, and his hands were _everywhere_ , slow and hungry and bold in ways Carver had never imagined.  And then his mouth sought other interesting climes, like the ridge of Carver's collarbone and the knobble of his nipple and the hollow of his belly, which Carver had sucked in because _Cullen's teeth_ had grazed the skin around his navel.  And then Cullen's mouth found Carver's cock and that was -- it was -- bloody _Maker_ it was --   He put his hands into Cullen's hair and _begged_ , it was so good.  Didn't know what the sod he was actually begging for, just needed to hold Cullen and writhe and shout _please_ because it felt so fucking beautiful.

     Then Cullen pushed his legs apart and slid between them.  There was no oil, just spit, and Carver was game, but instead Cullen grabbed his cock and lowered himself and there was _his_ cock and his hand too and they rocked together.  It was sodding perfect:  tight grip, good swordsman's hands all perfect for jollies, even the calluses felt good.  Or maybe it wouldn't have mattered if Cullen had had hands like a golem because it was _Cullen_ , solid and golden and beautiful above him, watching Carver's face while they fucked his hand, tightening that hand just so when Carver gasped or moaned or begged some more, until finally he had to sob, "I can't, I can't," and Cullen breathed into his ear, "You can," and what did that even sodding _mean_.

     It meant everything.  It meant nothing.  It didn't matter.  He clung to Cullen, and all the world felt right for the first time in years.

     So he came like a fire brigade, all frantic wet heat.  Cullen was cooler but louder, tossing back his head to cry something that sounded like a prayer of thanks, which Carver would only laugh at later.  Because then Cullen _kept at it_ for awhile after with his ridiculous Templar stamina, even while Carver whimpered, shocked and oversensitive and loving every minute of it.  Until finally Carver had to catch him by the arms pull him down onto his side to hold him still.  "Save some for later, you greedy arse."

     Cullen laughed breathlessly and closed his eyes, his body only a fire-limned outline in the light of the single lantern in the room.  Carver drew fingers along the panting silhouette of him, memorizing.  He smiled when Cullen said, "I cannot be certain of a later.  I would have all I can of you, now."

     "Oh, there'll be a later," Carver said, grinning.  "If that's how you do with no oil and only half a sex life between us, I want to see you after some practice and preparation."

     Cullen's eyes opened, all whites and gleaming in the dimness; after a moment, Carver's smile faded.  No, this wasn't really a night for jokes.  Not right now.

     Or for betrayal. 

     With a heavy sigh, Carver sat up and reached under the bed's pillow, pulling out the big, curved knife he'd hidden there hours before.  When Cullen had had a chance to mark it -- and raise his eyebrows, appreciative of its size -- Carver turned and threw the thing onto the floor across the room.

     "Concerned for security?"  Cullen asked.

     Carver propped himself on one elbow, and took a deep breath.  "No.  It was for --  I was gonna kill you."  He licked his lips.  "To protect Bethany."  Then he waited, and prayed he hadn't ruined another good thing.

     "Ah."  To his relief, Cullen sounded only contemplative.  "I suppose that would have been the wise thing to do, if you meant to guard her secret."

     "Yeah, well."  Unable to help himself, Carver put a hand on Cullen's chest.  The sweat was drying, but his skin was still hot as Andraste's fires.  Amazing he'd managed to go for as long as he had.  Amazing that Carver had _lost his sodding mind_ like this, over a Templar.  "The wise thing.  Never been much good at that."

     Cullen took his hand.  "For which I am grateful."  And unspoken in his voice, Carver heard, _your trust, too_.

     His throat hurt again.  Awkwardly, trying to sound gruff, he said, "Well, I figure... Can't hurt having a Templar in my pocket.  In... in case Bethy does end up in the Gallows, I mean."  He wanted that clear after his earlier talk.  He would give his life for Bethany, but this -- whatever it was -- between them wasn't a _quid pro quo_.  He wasn't doing this for her, or for Cullen either.

     There was a pause, and then Cullen sat up on one elbow too, still holding Carver's hand against his chest.  He understood, Carver saw in his face.  Cullen got everything.

     "It will not be my doing, if so.  I agree that she's safer outside the Gallows' confines, and..."  He frowned in thought for a moment.  "Well.  I shall consider your namesake's way of doing things.  If she dabbles in blood magic or necromancy, of course, or lets a demon take her -- "  He paused, and Carver nodded.  That part didn't need to be said.

     "Right.  I, I know.  She made me promise, a long time ago..." His hand twitched, and Cullen squeezed it a little, in comfort.  "That I would take care of things, if it ever came to that."

     "Then she is wise, and I have nothing to fear."  He let go Carver's hand and moved it up to cup the back of Carver's neck.  So sodding gentle.  So bloody perfect.  "Neither do you, Carver."

     It was a lovely fiction.  This was Kirkwall; he had plenty to fear -- just maybe not from Cullen, or at least not yet.

     So Carver let himself believe the words, just for a little while.  And he let Cullen pull him close, and wrap strong arms around him; and he let himself do the same and be reassured by the warm solidity of Cullen right where Carver wanted him.

     But as he relaxed toward sleep, he had to chuckle.  "Weight in my arms."

     Cullen's hand stroked the back of his hair.  "Yes.  I look forward to saying good morning to you."

     Maker, but he was sentimental. 

     Still, Carver sighed and closed his eyes, and pressed his face into Cullen's shoulder so that Cullen would not see him grin himself to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: I am pro-sex work! The only reason I decided not to make Carver actually a courtesan is because a) I can't see him getting over his pride enough to do so, and b) I can't see Cullen actually responding to him if he thinks any whiff of what Carver does is "just a job" -- as you can see in this 'fic. It actually required folding and spindling their personalities quite a bit to fit them into this scenario, which is why I killed off Hawke. I figure Carver would be more relaxed, and more desperate to make ends meet, if he doesn't have big sibling around to shadow him or aid him as head of the family. Even so, Carver being Carver, I figure host club boy is as far as he'd be willing to go.
> 
> ...At this point I suspect I might never finish this 'fic. I'll leave it marked as unfinished, but I do think it kind of fulfills a character arc in the stuff that's here -- Carver coming to a place of acceptance re Cullen, Cullen winning Carver's heart. The rest would be lots of plot, and I'm just not feeling it. Sorry!


End file.
